In this family, pretty is the rent.”

The whole showroom erupted into polite, appreciative laughter.

I remember freezing back there among the plastic garment bags, my nine-year-old brain doing the silent math that would define my life.

If pretty was the rent, I was severely, irreparably behind on my payments.

I had, according to the family ledger, the wrong face.

Once, in a rare moment of childish bravery, I asked my mother whose face I had, since it so clearly wasn’t hers.