“Megan? Sweetheart? No one was answering the door, and the front latch was open, so I just let myself in.”
It was my grandma—my mom’s mother. She had driven three hours from the countryside to see me off, wanting to witness the “sequel” to the prom photos she’d cherished for twenty years. She walked into my room, her floral perfume trailing behind her, and stopped dead. She didn’t have to ask what had happened. She saw the ink, the jagged tears, and the look of total, shattered defeat on my face.
