Penelope sat at her vanity. She was still; her outward appearance calm as maids fussed over her, doing her make-up and hair and nails. Staring at her reflection she felt anything but beautiful. Not as a bride should feel. And her phone call from Joan last night kept her up, thinking and mulling over what the message meant.

"Mother, I feel stupid."

( What makes us different, makes us beautiful. )