For my beautiful first granddaughter.

I ran my fingers over the letters. For the first time in my life, I felt chosen. Not tolerated. Not compared. Chosen.

We left wildflowers on the grave.

“I received your letters, Grandfather,” I whispered into the wind. The leaves shifted gently, as if he’d heard.

Months later, the scars on my face faded, though they never disappeared completely. At first I buried them under makeup.

Then one day I stopped hiding them. I looked in the mirror and traced a finger along the line beneath my left eye.