And then she said the thing.
The thing I will hear in my nightmares until the day I die.
She looked down at my daughter, my Mia, sitting there in her lavender dress with tears starting in her eyes, and she said, loud and clear and cruel:
“She can’t even walk down an aisle. Do you honestly think any man is ever going to marry her?”
Somebody gasped. An actual gasp, from a table near us. Somewhere across the room a fork hit a plate with a sharp little clink and the sound of it seemed enormous in the silence.
And Mia heard it.
Of course she heard it. She was right there. She heard every word.
I watched it land on her. I watched that beautiful, joyful face that had broken open with happiness ten seconds ago break open a different way. Her chin trembled. The tears that had been gathering spilled over and ran down both cheeks. She stared down at her empty lap, at her own useless legs under the lavender skirt, and she made herself small, so small, tucking into herself the way she used to, trying to disappear.
