The night before, I’d found my daughter standing barefoot in a field of it.
“Letty?” I’d knocked on the bathroom door once. “Honey, can I come in?”
She stood in front of the mirror with kitchen scissors in one hand and a ribbon-tied bundle of hair in the other. Her hair was hacked to her shoulders, crooked and jagged, and her chin was shaking.
I stared at the floor first, then at her. “Letty… what did you do?”
She lifted her shoulders like she was bracing for impact. “Don’t be mad.”
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