She began to catalog its changes. Each morning, she lifted her shirt in the bathroom mirror, documenting it with her phone. In the harsh light, the scar looked darker, almost angry, as though defying the silence of her medical records. It wanted to be seen, even if no one believed her.
Her parents visited one afternoon, bringing food and gifts for the baby. Over tea, she blurted out the question: “Did I ever have surgery as a child?” They exchanged startled looks, then shook their heads. “No, sweetheart. Never. You were a healthy little girl.”