Henry glanced toward a covered shape beside the shed. “That would’ve ruined this.”
Graham muttered, “I’m going inside.”
“No, you’re not.”
He stopped.
Henry looked almost guilty.
That frightened me more than anything.
“What did you two do?”
Henry looked toward Graham.
Graham nodded at something large beside the shed.
It was hidden beneath an old moving blanket.
“What is that?” I shrieked.
Henry slowly stepped toward me.
“Mercy, before you get angry…”
“I am already angry.”
“Fair.”
“Did you make some kind of deal with Graham?”
Henry winced. “Yes.”
I stared at him.
Behind us, the back door opened.
Marissa’s voice floated across the yard.
“Mom?”
All three of us froze.
She hadn’t seen us yet.
“Mari, stay inside!” I called.
“Why?”
Graham whispered, “That sounded suspicious.”
Marissa stepped onto the porch carrying a cheesecake.
“What are you doing out there?”
Henry grabbed the edge of the blanket.
“We’re out of time.”
He pulled.
The blanket dropped onto the grass.
Beneath it stood an old wooden vanity.
Cream paint.
Three little drawers.
A round mirror with a small chip near the top.
One scratch along the left corner where nine-year-old Marissa had once caught it with a metal bracelet.
I knew that vanity.
I’d bought it for her when she was six.
She used to sit in front of it singing into a hairbrush and covering herself in glitter she called makeup.
She’d make ridiculous faces at herself until we both laughed.
Years later, she carried the mirror into the garage and told Henry:
“I don’t want something in my room whose whole job is looking at me.”
I thought we’d thrown it away.
I had no idea Henry had spent weeks restoring it.
Even the chipped edge of the mirror had been carefully stabilized.
“Oh my God… how did you arrange all of this?”
Henry looked toward Graham.
“He helped.”
My head snapped around.
“The deal.”
Graham nodded. “Part of it.”
“Part?”
Before he could explain, Marissa’s footsteps sounded behind us.
She had reached the yard.
Then she saw Henry.
“Henry?”
He turned.
Her gaze shifted to the vanity.
The cheesecake tilted dangerously in her hands.
Marissa walked closer.
“No.”
Henry stayed still.
She set the cake on the patio table.
Then reached toward the small top drawer.
Her fingers rested on the old brass handle.
I looked between Graham and Henry.
“You still haven’t told me what the deal was.”
Henry glanced at our daughter, then back at me.
“No.” He sighed. “Graham’s part was telling me when Mari stopped checking every photograph. Mine was restoring this if that day ever came.”
Henry looked at Graham.
“Then tonight, he apparently decided you needed a part too.”
Graham shrugged. “I needed to get you outside somehow.”
I stared at them both. “My turn to do what?”
Henry held my gaze. “See what Mari doesn’t need from you anymore.”
Marissa reached the vanity.
“Henry, why do you have this?”
Henry touched the polished edge.
“You told me you didn’t want it in your room, Mari. You never told me to throw it away.”
Marissa stared at him.
Then Graham quietly said, “This is where the deal comes in.”
I turned on him.
“Start talking.”
—
Months earlier, Graham had asked Henry for his blessing before proposing.
“I didn’t give him permission,” Henry said. “Mari doesn’t need mine. We just talked.”
Henry had asked Graham one question.
“What do you love most about her face?”
Graham’s expression had apparently soured immediately.
“I don’t know how to answer that without cutting her into pieces.”
So Henry told him about Marissa’s old habit.
Every photograph.
Every family gathering.
Every camera.
“Is it okay?”
“Can I see it?”
“Delete that one.”
Henry looked at me and asked, “You remember?”
Of course I did.
I’d answered those questions hundreds of times.
Henry continued.
“I told Graham not to start reassuring her before she even asked. Just love her normally.”
Graham nodded.
“And Henry said if Mari ever stopped checking every picture, I should tell him.”
Marissa stared at Graham.
“You two have been monitoring my selfies?”
“That sounds much worse when you say it,” Graham admitted. “A couple months ago, you stopped asking.”
He pulled out his phone and showed us the lock screen.
Marissa stood in a parking lot, hair blowing everywhere, eyes half closed from laughing.
Her birthmark was fully visible.
My attention immediately went to her.
“You usually hate pictures like…”
I stopped myself.
Marissa noticed.
So did Henry.
That was my part.
Henry spoke gently.
“Mercy, sometimes Mari walks into a room perfectly fine, and you’re already checking who’s staring.”
“I was protecting her.”
“I know.” His tone softened. “But sometimes you remind her to be afraid before anybody has done anything.”
For years, whenever someone raised a camera, I’d automatically say, “Mari, this light is better.”
Or, “Turn a little.”
Or simply, “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
Marissa looked at me.
