“Then stop saying that.”
This wasn’t about trying to look younger.
She wanted to work in her garden without constant shoulder pain.
She wanted to cook dinner without needing to sit down halfway through.
She wanted whatever years remained to feel less like a daily negotiation with her own body.
The surgery went well.
At least, that was what I believed when I drove her home two days later.
Dad was waiting for us.
From the moment we arrived, he fussed over her.
He carried her bag.
Asked if she needed water.
Wanted to know whether the seat belt had bothered her incision.
Everything seemed normal.
Until we entered their bedroom.
Mom stopped in the doorway.
The large mirror above the dresser was gone.
So was the full-length mirror beside the closet.
Even the small vanity mirror she had owned since her twenties had disappeared.
“Brad?”
Dad came in behind us.
Mom gave a confused little laugh.
“What did you do?”
Dad hesitated.
“You probably shouldn’t look yet.”
“The surgeon already warned me there would be swelling.”
He shook his head.
“It isn’t the swelling.”
Something about his voice made me turn toward him.
He looked terrified.
Mom’s smile vanished.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Dad glanced at me.
Then back at her.
“Your surgeon called while you were asleep.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why would he call you?” I asked.
