Always Wear Lipstick

My mother emerges from the front door, a wide belt around her waist and a black and white patterned skirt, short enough to display her trim ankles and her shiny high heels. The hot air blows through the car as the driver’s door swings open. Where is your lipstick? she asks me. I pull down the car visor and per at my chubby face in the mirror. My hair is parted on the right side with a barrette. I look at the freckles on the bridge of my nose. My mother glares, disappointed in my plain face and my round tummy. I see it in her eyes. My heart is a small sponge, and I know I’m not enough. Never enough.