When my daughter Lily survived a terrible accident at 11, she was left with a scar across her forehead. Years of therapy and hiding later, she finally felt ready to show her face proudly at my fiancée Melissa’s family barbecue.

At first, everything went fine—until Melissa’s mom leaned in with a fake smile and suggested Photoshopping Lily’s scar out for the wedding.

The table went silent. Then Lily stood, calm but fierce:
“If we’re editing out things that make people uncomfortable, can we Photoshop out your extra 20 pounds?”

Forks dropped. Her grandmother turned beet red.

And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t just proud of Lily’s comeback—I was done with Melissa, too.