The sunspots once had been freckles, gained through countless summers on the beach; the wrinkles signs of laughter, of worry, of a husband who left her a widow at age twenty-eight. The stout waist testified to her children, the miscarriages and the three who lived. Her body told stories, and I wanted that. I wanted to grow up and be proud of my laugh lines and shrug my shoulders at the loose skin around my neck and hold onto the extra layer of fat around my middle and call it love handles—with a smile.