mind.
Gwen could be funny.
She loved the children in the way she understood love.
She bought extravagant birthday gifts.
She remembered school performances.
She also had a habit of treating every gathering like a production.
At the beach:
“Take it again.
My arm looks fat.”
At dinner:
“Move over, Maya.
You’re blocking the light.”
At sunset:
“No.
Again.
That isn’t my good side.”
She took hundreds of photographs.
Maya tolerated it because she was having too much fun to care.
That was what made the week extraordinary.
She swam.
She played volleyball.
She wore sleeveless dresses.
She let Liam photograph her running through shallow water.
One afternoon, I saw her sitting alone near the surf.
The sun illuminated every part of her skin she had spent years hiding.
She was not covering herself.
She was not watching who looked.
She was simply reading a book.
I turned away before
