As the sun warmed our backs, Lily and I arrived at Melissa’s family’s Fourth of July barbecue. The moment felt monumental—after years of pain and healing, Lily, now fifteen, stood tall in a summer dress with her facial scar fully visible. Three years ago, she had shattered a mirror in shame. Now she was done hiding, and her quiet strength filled me with a pride I hadn’t known before.
The afternoon started well. Lily engaged with Melissa’s cousins and even laughed, and I allowed myself a flicker of hope. But the atmosphere shifted when Melissa’s mother made a cruel, veiled remark about Lily’s scar. Her faux-concern quickly spiraled into thinly disguised insult, suggesting the scar might ruin Melissa’s wedding photos. I waited for Melissa to step in and shut it down—but she said nothing, choosing silence over support.
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