Eventually, I asked, “Something happened at school, right?”
Her shoulders trembled.
Months earlier, someone had photographed her laughing at a gathering. The image spread among students, who mocked her nose and chin.
Someone altered the photograph to exaggerate her features. Others laughed as she walked past or mimicked her smile.
Emily withdrew from gatherings and avoided cameras.
I recalled her frequent refusal of video calls, usually blaming her messy room.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’d say they’re stupid and I shouldn’t listen.”
She was probably right. That was exactly how I might have responded.
“It wasn’t that simple, Mom. I had to see them every day.”
I took her hand.
“Who helped you through it?”
“Ryan.”
Ryan had been her boyfriend for nearly a year. We’d met twice, and he’d seemed courteous.
“He was the only person who understood,” Emily continued. “He helped me find the surgeon.”
