And now Maya picked up a freshly framed print from the top of the stack, the sunrise photograph her brother had taken that very morning, and ran her fingers gently over the glass.

“Mom?” she said softly.

“Yeah, sweetie?” “Remember when Aunt Gwen said nobody would ever want to look at me?” David had come in from the porch, and he stopped behind her chair and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“We remember,” he said quietly.

And my daughter smiled, not a bitter smile, but one full of a deep and quiet victory, and turned the frame around so we could all see it.

“I’m sending this one to the gallery for the summer exhibit,” she said, her voice completely steady, her shoulders high.