Chapter 2

Before I could even react to the flash, Byron uploaded the photo to our extended family group chat. He followed it with a voice message, his childish voice dripping with malice.

"Mom's belly scar looks so ugly and gross! Why does she always have to embarrass herself by trying to wear the pretty clothes Aunt Charlotte wants?"

His words made my blood run cold.

As I stood there, still struggling to process what he'd done, Charlotte stepped out of the neighboring fitting room. She was wearing the same style of swimsuit, but on her, it accentuated her curves perfectly.

Almost immediately, everyone in the store turned to look at her.

"Oh my gosh, her figure is incredible! Her skin is so fair and smooth, and look at that waist. She's practically sculpted!"

"Wait, who's that standing next to her? Her abdomen is covered in stretch marks, and her underarms are so dark. It's honestly hard to look at."

I felt as though I'd been stripped naked in front of a crowd.

I turned to Pierre, desperately hoping he'd at least stand up for me. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Charlotte, and he hadn't even noticed my humiliation.

Meanwhile, the family group chat had erupted.

Relatives piled on, calling me a shameless middle-aged woman who should know better than to flaunt herself in public. Unable to bear another moment of it, I fled back into the fitting room and burst into tears.

Ever since Byron's birth, I'd tried everything to get rid of the stretch marks and surgical scars on my abdomen. No matter what I did, though, I couldn't stop seeing them as flaws.

Over time, my insecurity about my body had spiraled into severe body-image issues and mild depression. Pierre had been there to comfort me, telling me those marks were beautiful proof of a mother's love.

He'd even promised that when Byron grew old enough to understand, he'd comfort me too. One day, he said, our son would look me in the eyes and tell me sweetly that I was the prettiest mom in the world.

But now, instead of offering me love and reassurance, they tore open my old wounds. The pain was so intense that I could barely breathe.

While I was still struggling to compose myself, I heard them snickering outside the door.

"That'll teach Mom not to scold Aunt Charlotte in the group chat for leaving her stuff everywhere. She deserved it!" Byron gloated.

I slid down the wall, unable to stop my tears, and stayed there until Pierre finally called for me to hurry up so we could go home. Only then did I force myself to stand and open the door.

As we left the store, Charlotte cast me a provocative glance while swinging her arms to show off the shopping bags she carried.

"Doris, next time you go shopping, maybe ask me before you buy anything? Wearing matching outfits with you could get awkward."

Byron burst out laughing and rushed to help carry her bags. Pierre, meanwhile, pressed a cheap, crudely made pearl hair clip into my hand.

"You're not a young girl anymore. You need to be realistic about your figure. Something simple and classic, like pearls, suits you much better."

I clenched my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms as I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat.

It wasn't that pearls suited me. The truth was that, in Pierre's eyes, I simply wasn't worth anything more than a free promotional gift.

Charlotte looped her arm through Pierre's and gave me a playful wink.

"I haven't picked out my sunglasses yet!"

When I turned to head for the car, Pierre caught my wrist and tugged me back.

"Don't go to the car yet. We're not finished."

His sudden pull caught me off guard, and I stumbled backward, scraping my forearm against the sharp, rigid edge of a heavy shopping bag.

A thin line of blood welled up almost immediately, and I gasped at the sting.

Yet neither Pierre nor Byron even glanced my way. Without a word, they followed Charlotte back into the store, leaving me standing alone with my injured arm.

Just as I was trying to steady myself, a quiet gasp sounded beside me. A young woman passing by had noticed the blood and pulled a Band-Aid from her purse.

She handed it to me and studied my face. "Are you... D.L.?"

I was taken aback by the question, but after a brief pause, I nodded.

Her eyes widened with excitement, and she threw her arms around me, exclaiming, "I've seen your photography exhibits! I'm a huge fan of your work. But you haven't published anything in eight whole years!"

Her words brought back memories of a life that seemed to belong to someone else. A decade ago, I had been a celebrated fine-art photographer at the height of my career.

Through my lens, every element of nature seemed to come alive, each with its own ethereal spirit. Pierre had fallen in love with my photography long before he ever met me in person.

So captivated was he by my work that he'd gone to extraordinary lengths to track down my contact information. Once he had it, he pursued me with unwavering devotion.

He sent flowers to my studio every morning, brought me lunch, and showed up every evening with a cup of warm cocoa. His unwavering devotion finally won my heart.

After we married, his career took off, while I found myself torn between family life and the wilderness I used to capture through a lens.

Then Byron was born with health problems, and caring for him became my priority. I eventually gave up my career altogether, becoming a housewife and leaving my camera untouched for years.

Even so, I had never completely forgotten the photographer I'd once been. That was why I'd insisted on going to Lake Tahoe for our honeymoon.

Pierre had promised long ago that we'd take our long-overdue wedding photos there, at the place where our story began. But somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten the place where we'd once been happiest.

That was fine.

I would make the trip to Lake Tahoe alone.