“I wanted one day without everyone making everything about something else!”
The church became painfully quiet.
Travis stepped away from her.
“Sophie wouldn’t have made anything about herself. She’s eight.”
Amanda looked around at the watching guests.
“Can we please talk privately?”
I knew I had already embarrassed her.
That had been my intention when I drove there.
But standing before everyone, I realized that wasn’t why I’d spent three nights assembling the album.
There was something Amanda needed to remember.
“One more picture,” I said.
I turned to a photograph taken when Sophie was five.
Her vitiligo had become more noticeable that year.
White patches spread across her fingers, around one eye, and along her neck.
Sophie had started asking why her skin looked different.
At a family gathering, an older relative suggested covering the patches with makeup for pictures.
Before I could respond, Amanda had spoken.
“Absolutely not. Sophie doesn’t need to hide anything.”
