trip had run one day longer than expected, which meant the man my daughter intended to marry was coming to dinner for the first time while Henry was four hours away.
“I’ll meet him tomorrow,” he promised. “Properly.”
Marissa checked the clock.
“He’s going to be here in 10 minutes.”
Then she touched one of her earrings.
“Is this too much?”
“No,” I said. “You look beautiful.”
Marissa gave me a small smile.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Then the doorbell rang.
Marissa had been born with a dark reddish birthmark covering much of the left side of her face.
When she was little, she didn’t care.
At four, she once drew herself with a purple crayon covering half her face because, according to her, “purple is prettier than red.”
Then she started school.
Other children taught her to
