Every morning, I looked in the mirror before work and saw the same face staring back. The left side still carried what the fire had taken twenty years earlier. The scars crossed my cheek, traced my jaw, and disappeared down my neck in rough, uneven lines. Makeup softened them, but it never erased them. After two decades, I had learned to live with the stares. I knew the difference between curiosity and cruelty. I knew when people were startled, and I knew when they were unkind. I thought I had grown strong enough for all of it. Then my daughter...
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