My sister said my teenage daughter ruined every vacation photo.
Then my ten-year-old son stood up and said one sentence that made her
run out of my house.
My daughter, Maya, was sixteen.
She was born with extensive vascular birthmarks across much of her right
shoulder, upper arm, side and portions of one leg.
They were vivid.
They were visible.
And from the time she was old enough to understand other people’s faces,
she understood that strangers noticed them.
Children stared.
Some whispered.
A few laughed.
Adults were often worse because they believed concern made invasive
questions acceptable.
“What happened to her?”
“Can it spread?”
“Did she get burned?”
“Have you tried removing it?”
Maya learned to hide before she learned long division.
Long sleeves in July.
Jeans at outdoor birthday parties.
Towels wrapped around her shoulders at pools.
She stopped changing in front of classmates during middle school.
She stepped out of photographs if too much skin was visible.
She once deleted seventy-three pictures from my phone because she
thought the marks on her shoulder made her look “wrong.”
That word broke my heart.
Wrong.
There was nothing wrong with my daughter.
Her dermatologist had explained her condition to us carefully.
We had discussed treatment options when medically appropriate.
We had also made sure Maya understood that treatment was her choice when
it concerned appearance.
Her body was not a family renovation project.
Still, I could not protect her from every stare.
So when we went to Florida that summer and Maya walked onto the beach
wearing a yellow two-piece swimsuit, I nearly cried.
She stood beside me outside our rental house near Clearwater Beach.
Her hands were shaking.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m tired of hiding.”
I looked at her.
She forced a nervous smile.
“I’ve decided to accept myself.”
Then she lifted her chin.
“I’m beautiful no matter what.”
“You are.”
I said.
“But you don’t have to prove anything today.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the water.
“I want to go.”
So we went.
My ten-year-old son, Liam, ran ahead carrying the small digital camera
he had saved for almost a year to buy.
Photography was his obsession.
Sunsets.
Birds.
Shoes abandoned beside doors.
Half-eaten pancakes.
Anything could become important once Liam looked through a lens.
My sister Gwen had invited herself on the trip.
That description sounds unkind.
It is also accurate.
