“Hi, Julia honey,” she said, her voice sticky sweet. “I just wanted to touch base about the wedding. There will be a lot of family there, along with professional photographers and videographers, you know. And… well… I hope you’re not planning to go looking like that, were you?”

My stomach dropped.

“You don’t want to embarrass our family, do you?! Here, take this. I brought you a wig. Wear it to the wedding. We don’t want people distracted by… your appearance. It will make you more… comfortable.”

I felt myself sinking through the floor—not ashamed of myself, but ashamed for her.

“Me, ‘comfortable?’” I asked. “Or will it make you more comfortable?”

She gave her practiced laugh. “Oh no, sweetie, it’s not like that. It’s just… people might be distracted. It’s a happy occasion, and I don’t want any whispers.”

There it was—the polite knife. My bald head, the proof of what I’d survived, was an embarrassment to her perfect picture.