Last night, as you turned 11, I watched you blow out your candles, filled with pride, my mind flashed back through a decade of memories, stopping vividly on the evening of your violin recital.

I remembered you standing there, just fifteen minutes before the curtain, showing me the angry, weeping scabs behind your knees. Your skin was so sensitive—each fabric, from the lace stockings to the polyester leggings, seemed to leave a trail of irritation. The constant scratching had turned the backs of your legs into a map of thick, inflamed welts, and those sharp scabs had just shredded your last pair of stockings.

I had become a walking pharmacy, my large tote bag stuffed with leggings, backup dresses, prescribed creams and Vaseline to soothe the friction.  But that night, I was out of options. You went on anyway, and your recital photos show you with your legs crossed and tilted just so, a professional mask hiding the tear. I watched you, heartbroken, as you adjusted your posture in every photo, tilting your legs to hide the shame. You hid it well, but I never wanted you to feel that you had to hide herself. In that moment, I promised myself I wouldn’t let “hiding” become your habit or allow a flare-up of irritated skin to ever change how you saw your own beauty.