The vivid birthmarks across her arms and shoulders caught the warm afternoon light, and I looked at them, really looked at them, the way my daughter had finally learned to, and I saw not stains, not flaws, not anything wrong, but a delicate and unique map written across her skin, entirely her own, and entirely beautiful.

My son walked up to her, holding the brand-new professional camera that David and I had given him for his own birthday, a real one now, to replace the little one that had saved his sister.

“Stand right there, Maya,” Liam said, bringing the viewfinder to his eye.

“The natural light is perfect.” And my daughter did not step back, and she did not hide her arms behind her, and she did not turn her marked side away from the lens.

She threw her head back, and she laughed, and she struck a pose right in the center of the frame.