"I'm fine. I'm fine. I just need—" She grabs a tissue from the box on the dresser. "I just need a minute."
Astrid meets my eyes.
We both try not to laugh.
"You look perfect," Astrid says. "Seriously. Like something out of a fairy tale."
I turn back to the mirror.
The veil softens everything.
Makes me look ethereal.
Bridal.
Ready.
My eyes drop to my left arm.
The bandage is still there, peeking out from beneath the lace sleeve.
The wound has healed enough that I don't need it anymore—not really, but the scar is still fresh, still pink and raised and impossible to ignore.
"We could cover it," Mom says gently, following my gaze. "Long gloves, maybe. Or more bandaging that blends with the dress."
I consider it for about two seconds. "No."
"No?"
"These scars are part of my story." I trace a finger along the edge of the bandage. "They're part of how I got here. How we got here. I'm not hiding them."
Mom's eyes fill with fresh tears. "That's my girl."
A knock at the door.
"Everyone decent?" Dad's voice calls through.
"Come in, Dad."
The door opens and my father steps inside.
And stops.
Just stops.
Stares at me like he's never seen me before. "Ingrid." His voice is rough. "You?—"
He can't finish either.
Must be genetic.
"Don't you start crying too," I warn him. "Mom's already gone through half a box of tissues."
"I'm not crying." He clears his throat. "I just—you look?—"
"Like Mom?"
"Like the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He crosses to me, takes my hands. "Besides your mother, of course."
