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.
Eventually, Mom apologized, and we took the photograph together.
In the picture, Amanda was holding my hand so tightly that our fingers were pressed together.
I turned the album toward her.
“Do you remember why you’re holding my hand?”
Amanda stared at it.
For a moment, she looked nothing like the angry bride standing before me.
She looked like my little sister again.
“You wouldn’t let Mom move me,” she whispered.
