Climbing out of bed, I pull on my red silk robe and reach for my scarf. But instead of wrapping it around my neck, I sit and stare at it. Pondering Maddy’s reaction to my scars—how she now knows the secret I have kept for so many years. Gathering the scarf, I walk over to the looking glass. There are several small scars at the base of my throat. They do not extend very far, and are fainter in color. But lower, over my heart, the skin is puckered and uneven. Dark lines create a grotesque web of flesh that’s been there for as long as I can remember. I clench the scarf tightly as my mind fills with the memory of the first time Mother told me I must wear it. I was very young, and we were still living in England. The weather had been unbearably warm and I wanted to go swimming in the pond with the other children. But when Mother saw me removing the scarf, she pulled me from the water and marched me back to Aunt Isobel’s house. The look in her eyes frightened me as she gripped my shoulders.
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