The image.
Your daughter looked down at her dress.
Your beautiful, gentle, serious little girl looked down at herself as if searching for what was wrong.
That was when you stopped caring about the wedding completely.
You crouched in front of Camila and lifted her chin.
“Look at me,” you said.
She did, eyes shining.
“There is nothing wrong with you. Not your dress. Not your basket. Not your face. Not your walk. Not anything.”
Her tears spilled over.
You wiped them with your thumb.
“The problem is grown-ups who care more about pictures than promises.”
