I encounter the same distorted reflection gazing back at me every morning as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Exactly twenty years ago, a catastrophic fire claimed my life, and the left side of my face is still a clear reminder of it. The strong, ridged scars tug down at my jawline, run violently across my cheek, and vanish into the uneven flesh of my neck. The heavy tissue can be softened with makeup, but it can never be completely concealed. Living within a changed face for twenty years is a long time. It’s long enough to become used to the incessant looks and more than long enough to quickly discern between deliberate harshness and innocent curiosity.
With the help of my strong mother, Rose, who lives next door, I raise my eleven-year-old daughter, Clara, all by myself. When Clara was only three years old, my husband died from a protracted and difficult illness, leaving the three of us to develop an extraordinarily close and protective relationship. When Clara was a toddler, she would gently trace the elevated ridges on my neck and ask whether they still ached. Clara is often a kind and compassionate kid. She would always smile, fully satisfied, when I told her they didn’t. But when I made the decision to pick her up from middle school on a sweltering afternoon, that lovely innocence was dashed.
I saw the student body pour out of the main doors as I parked beside the packed curb. Clara was standing with a few of her classmates when one lad abruptly gestured to my car, made a harsh remark in a whisper, and covered his lips while the others burst out laughing. Before Clara even made it to the passenger door, I witnessed the physical effects of the insult. In a fit of mute embarrassment, she put her rucksack upon the floorboard, stiffened her shoulders, and lowered her head. She kept her eyes fixed on the passenger window as I drove away, and then she whispered a request that struck a chord with me. She could no longer bear the other students making fun of her, so she pleaded with me to cease visiting her school.
I listened as Clara described the painful details, keeping my eyes fixed on the road to keep from crying. Every student was expected to bring their mother onstage and explain why she was unique during a large Mother’s Day assembly, which her class was actively preparing for. Clara had initially been thrilled, but her excitement quickly turned to terror when a group of cruel boys began joking about the monster mom showing up. During class, one student even drew a hideous, severely disfigured caricature on a piece of notebook paper and placed it on her desk.
I stroked my bruised jaw, my fingers shaking on the steering wheel. I stared at my lovely, worn-out daughter, who was just attempting to endure the callous brutality of kids. I questioned her about whether she really understood how I got my scars. I described how a huge fire had destroyed my apartment building when I was sixteen. I heard scared kids screaming from the second story as residents ran away in a panic. I tried to save them by running back into the flaming fire, but the fire destroyed my face. I had never told this tale to many people since I didn’t want one terrible night to define who I was. Clara pulled her hand away, sobbing that I didn’t realize how much the looking hurt, even though I had clasped her hand and assured her that I would still go to the assembly so she would never have to be ashamed of the truth.
The next morning, I dressed in my best navy dress, styled my hair to accentuate the side of my face that was not damaged, and got ready to confront the throng. Fearful of what was ahead, Clara said nothing at all during the drive. Mothers and kids filled the school auditorium when we got there. A murmur of whispers filled the room as Clara and I made our way down the aisle to locate our seats, and her palm became wet with perspiration in mine. Children proudly entered the stage one by one with their mothers, telling touching tales of handmade meals and prayers before bed. Clara seemed to sink deeper into her seat with every round of applause.
Clara’s name was finally called by the teacher. I got up, took my daughter’s hand, and led her to the platform as she froze in fear. A wad of crumpled paper hit my shoulder halfway down the aisle. I snatched it up and unfolded it, exposing a horrible drawing of a disfigured monster. Clara let out a small sob as a boy’s voice jeered from the back row, calling me a monster. A few kids giggled, while a few parents averted their gazes in extreme distress.
I spoke to the quiet room after taking the microphone from my daughter’s trembling hands. I explained to them that witnessing my kid suffer as a result of my scars was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I started telling the tale of the fire that occurred twenty years prior, describing how I had saved three children who were trapped on the second floor of a blazing structure.
The auditorium’s huge double doors swung open before I could finish speaking. Breathing heavily, a young man marched down the center aisle while standing at the doorway. It was Clara’s new music instructor, Scott. Raising his voice, he told the crowd to cease laughing since they were unaware of the real truth. He turned to face Clara and said that her mother had been keeping a fantastic secret for twenty years.
With his voice quivering with intense emotion, Scott ascended the stage stairs and grabbed the microphone. He disclosed that Emily had not only rescued three unrelated kids that evening. She discovered a fourth youngster was still trapped inside the falling structure after leaving it. She raced back into the flames a second time, found the scared youngster, and carried him out on her shoulders despite the firefighters yelling at her to keep back. Glancing out at the astonished crowd, Scott disclosed that he was that fourth child. Emily had lost her face while saving him, but not while saving three strangers.
The room was completely silent. The boy in the back row who had yelled the obscenity bowed his head in complete embarrassment. Scott clarified that years ago, when his parents attempted to publicly honor me, I pleaded with them to keep it private because I did not want a young child to bear the psychological burden of my physical wounds.
For the first time, Clara saw her mother clearly as she gazed at me with big, tearful eyes. Holding her hands, I knelt in front of her on stage and murmured that I never wanted her to feel sorry for me, only to realize that a person’s worth is not determined by their scars. She sobbed in my arms and said she was ashamed of me, but I comforted her and told her that she was only a young child who had suffered a great deal. The boy who had made fun of the crowd apologized in a quiet whisper. After twenty years, Scott gave me a silent, appreciative smile and thanked me appropriately before stealthily leaving the auditorium.
Returning the microphone, Clara introduced me to the room as the most courageous person she knew, her voice calm and proud. A tremendous, standing ovation broke out from the audience. The burdensome burden of the past felt entirely removed throughout the drive home. When Clara questioned me about why I had kept Scott a secret, I told her that I wanted her to see me as her devoted mother rather than as a terrible fire victim. Clara asked me if I still detested my face as we stood in front of the mirror at home. Looking at our reflections, I grinned and informed her that although some days are more difficult than others, my scars serve as a lovely reminder that I made it through and a witness to the strong love that ultimately brought us together.