It was my mother.
Emily’s grandmother.
At twelve years old.
“Your mother went through the same thing at that age,” my father said. “She was teased too. For years, she was convinced there was something wrong with the way she looked.”
Then my father looked at me.
“That day, Emily was sitting right here crying and telling me she was ashamed of herself. I simply told her, ‘You are beautiful exactly as you are. Your body belongs to you, and other people’s cruel words do not determine your worth.’”
I couldn’t say anything.
The entire story I had built in my mind over the past two days collapsed in anurm instant.
“Then why didn’t either of you tell me?”
Emily wrapped her arms around me.
“Because I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”
I hugged her tightly.
“Telling me when something is happening to you will never make you weak.”
A few weeks later, Emily returned to the school performance.
When she stepped onto the stage, my father was sitting in the front row.
After the performance, she ran straight to Grandpa and hugged him.
That day, I understood something.
Sometimes one sentence, without the rest of the story, can lead your mind toward the darkest possible conclusions.
But the words that had frightened me so badly had actually been a grandfather’s clumsy attempt to remind his granddaughter that she should never be ashamed of herself.
And from that day forward, I taught Emily not only to accept herself.
I also taught her something even more important.
If anything an adult says or does ever makes you feel uncomfortable, you can always tell me. Even if that person is someone from our own family.
