I sat beside her and pulled her into my arms.
“You did nothing wrong,” I whispered. “Nothing.”
That evening, I called my friend Nina, who owned a salon.
She examined Letty’s damaged hair gently and carefully.
“It’s going to take time,” she said softly. “But it can recover.”
“They’ll laugh at me at school,” Letty whispered.
Nina smiled kindly. “No, they won’t.”
The next morning, Nina helped me choose a soft dark wig that looked almost exactly like Letty’s natural hair.
At first, my daughter hated the idea.
“I’ll look fake.”
“You’ll look like yourself,” I told her gently. “Just temporarily.”
Monday morning, I watched her walk into school wearing the wig.
She paused once near the entrance, adjusted it nervously, then squared her shoulders and kept walking.
No one laughed.
No one stared.
I sat in the parking lot long after she disappeared inside because I realized how fragile children’s confidence truly is—and how quickly one cruel opinion can wound them.
Gloria still calls constantly.
Harry asked once if I thought I might forgive his mother someday.
I told him forgiveness doesn’t happen simply because the person who caused harm is tired of waiting.
Weeks later, Letty’s hair is still damaged, but it’s improving slowly.
Some nights, she comes into my room and sits beside me quietly the way she used to when she was little.
A few nights ago, she asked softly, “Do you think everything will ever go back to normal?”
I touched the edge of her wig gently and smiled.
“I think you will.”
She cried a little after that.
But then she laughed too.
And hearing that laugh again felt like finally breathing after being underwater for far too long.
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