“A few days.”
Mom looked blankly at the bare wall above her dresser. “And the mirrors?”
Dad rubbed his face in his hands. “The surgeon explained that more tissue had to come from that side, so one breast might look significantly smaller while you heal. I didn’t want you coming home, catching sight of yourself, and panicking before I could explain.”
“So you tried to hide it from me?” Mom whispered. “Just like everyone did when my mother got sick?”
Dad looked down. “When the surgeon mentioned a mass, my mind went straight to your mother. I thought removing the mirrors might buy you some breathing room so you wouldn’t stare at your reflection and assume the worst.”
“You can’t protect me from feeling afraid,” Mom said firmly, tears welling in her eyes. “When my mother had her mastectomy, I was seventeen. Nobody told us anything. Relatives whispered in the kitchen, and every time we walked in, they changed the subject. I only found out the truth because I accidentally walked in on her changing her bandages. I don’t want secrets in my own home.”
Mom looked straight at Dad. “Now go bring me my mirror.”
“Cindy, you’re forty-eight hours out of major surgery—”
“I am seventy years old, Brad. Go fetch my mirror.”
Dad left and returned with her small oval vanity glass. Handing it to her with trembling hands, he watched as Linda and I helped adjust her robe.
Mom looked into the glass. The physical asymmetry was clear beneath the bandages—one side carried far more swelling, while the other appeared smaller.
“You are still just as beautiful,” Dad offered softly.
Mom held up a hand. “Please don’t say that right now. It looks awful.”
“It’s major surgery,” Linda reminded her gently. “It’s allowed to look a bit awful right now.”
A small, tearful laugh escaped Mom’s lips. “I look just like her. I’ve spent my entire life secretly wondering if cancer would eventually come for me, too.”
That confession stunned me. Mom had never once voiced a fear of cancer, always treating her routine screenings with total calm. Fear, I realized, didn’t always make noise.
Dad crouched before her knees. “I genuinely thought I was protecting you.”
