Call Me Pretty

Epilogue | We're doing okay.

Dedicated to those who have ever felt as if they are alone or worthless, ugly or fat or too tall or too small.

To those who look in the mirror sometimes and don't know what you're looking at.

To those who hate their freckles or beauty marks or eyelashes or hair or thighs or ankles or shoulders or butt. 

To those who just can't seem to fit in-with the other kids or your jeans, it doesn't matter.

To those who sometimes avoid mirrors because they don't like what they see.

To those who are in the same place as Dominique was.

To those who stood by Dominique as she battled her demons.

To those who rooted for Ben as he tried to win her over, and was alway there.

To those who cried with Felicity when they realised sometimes there isn't anything you can do.

To those who have a sibling like Victoire or Dominique; always there to catch you if you fell.

And most of all, to those who feel un-pretty.

We all need a Ben to catch us, a Felicity to keep us laughing, a Victoire to tell our secrets to, a Neville to try and help, and a place to escape.

Thank you for calling Dominique pretty, and if you have learned anything from her story, remember that you're always pretty to someone.

Even your freckles.

Epilogue

We’re Doing Okay

Elin pronounced: Elle-IN

            In a small valley, nestled between two large willows, was a small brick house. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the windows glowed with soft light, casting patches of warm yellow beam on the snow. A Christmas tree could be seen through the living room window, and further in the house two girls made pizza with their mother.

“You’ve got sauce on your nose.”

“Well you have flour on your cheek.”

The two sisters teased each other all the time and Dominique watched them with a smile; they were so much like she and Victoire at that age, beautiful and full of life, hopes and dreams.

“Girls, where’s your sister?” Dom realised it had been ten minutes since her youngest daughter had left the room, and the girls shrugged.

“Don’t know,” said Alana, the eldest “Maybe she’s reading one of the books you got her for Christmas-you know we wont see her for the rest of break thanks to that.” She blew her strawberry blonde bangs out of her eyes and dug into the dough, kneading it with her knuckles.

Elin, the middle child rolled her eyes “We’re not Siamese twins, Mum.”

Chuckling, Dom removed her apron and hung it up “You two continue without me, I’ll go check on Ava.”

Leaving the girls to discuss (ahem, argue) over pizza toppings, Dom left the kitchen to climb the steep curving stairs to the second floor. Pictures hung on the walls, reciting the lives of her children. It started with Ben and her graduation and then wedding photo, several of their nieces and nephews and then Dom pregnant with Alana, little Alana growing up. Then two years later tiny Elin all bundled up, and Ava three years after. First steps, Christmas and holidays to France, Quidditch games and three September 1st’s.