The red foam nose.
It sits in the same storage box as the small scrap of blue ribbon my father asked to have sewn into my dress.
They should not belong together.
One came from love.
The other came from cruelty.
But when I see them side by side, I remember something important.
Vivian believed dignity was something she could take from me by changing what I wore.
She was wrong.
The dress had never been the source of it.
