“Then why isn’t she here?”
Amanda had no answer.
I closed the album halfway, suddenly aware of how many people
were watching a conversation that should never have reached this point.
But there was one final photograph I wanted Amanda to see.
It showed two little girls standing beside a birthday cake.
I was 12, and Amanda was eight.
She had a small scar near her left eyebrow from falling against a table when she was four.
The scar had faded over the years, but when Amanda was little, it bothered her terribly.
Our mother had never intended to be cruel. Still, she sometimes suggested turning Amanda’s face a certain way for photographs.
Once, before a family portrait, she asked Amanda to stand with her scar facing away from the camera.
Amanda had started crying.
I remembered taking her hand and telling Mom that if Amanda had to hide her face, neither of us would be in the picture.
