We tried making pancakes one morning and burned the first batch so badly that the smoke detector went off.
Emily laughed until she had tears in her eyes.
Later, she walked onto the porch wearing a sleeveless summer dress.
I noticed because she had spent years avoiding anything like it.
She caught me looking.
Her hand instinctively moved toward her shoulder.
Then stopped.
“They’re still there,” she said quietly.
I knew what she meant.
The old marks.
The reminders.
I walked beside her.
“So are you.”
She looked at me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she smiled.
“I used to think they were the first thing people would see.”
“What do you think now?”
Emily looked across the lake.
“I think they’re just one part of a much bigger story.”
I took her hand.
