The procedure went smoothly. At least, that’s what I believed when I drove her home two days later.
Dad met us on the porch, fussing over Mom the second we walked in—taking her bag, offering water, and asking nervously if the seatbelt had irritated her incision. But when we stepped into the master bedroom, Mom froze.
The large mirror above the dresser was gone. The full-length mirror near the closet was missing. Even her small oval vanity mirror—a piece she’d owned since her twenties—had vanished.
“Brad?” Mom asked with a nervous chuckle. “What on earth did you do?”
“You shouldn’t look at yourself just yet,” Dad replied quietly.
“The surgeon already warned me about the swelling.”
Dad shook his head. “It has nothing to do with the swelling.”
A terrifying tone in his voice made me spin around. He looked pale with fear.
“What are you keeping from me?” Mom asked, her smile vanishing.
Dad looked at me, then back at her. “Your surgeon called while you were still sleeping. You authorized them to speak with me about your medical care.”
“What did he say?” Mom demanded.
