Instead of answering, Dad walked to the closet, reached up, and pulled down an old shoebox. He opened the lid and carefully drew out a faded photograph.
Before Mom could grab it, heavy pounding echoed at the front door. I hurried downstairs and opened it to find Aunt Linda, Mom’s younger sister. She looked as though she had rushed over without a second thought—hair pulled into a messy ponytail, holding no purse or keys.
“Chiara,” she gasped, pushing past me. “Where is she?”
“Why are you here?” I asked, holding her arm.
“Your dad called me first thing this morning,” she admitted.
Mom stepped out onto the top landing in her robe. “Linda? What’s going on?” Looking between her sister and Dad, Mom’s features hardened. “Everybody up here right now.”
Back in the bedroom, Mom sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Hand me the photograph.”
Dad hesitated, then handed it over. I stood beside Mom as she flipped it. The photo showed my late grandmother flanked by Mom and Linda as young women. Grandma’s blouse lay completely flat on one side—a quiet reminder of the mastectomy she had undergone decades ago.
Mom’s fingers tightened around the paper. “Why are you showing me this right now?”
Dad sat beside her. “Because the surgeon found something during the procedure. While performing the reduction, he located a firm mass in the tissue removed from your left side.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Mom didn’t flinch. “What did he do about it?”
“It was in the tissue already scheduled for removal, so it’s been sent straight to pathology to see if it’s malignant.”
