“You told the surgeon?”
My mother nodded.
“You told her without telling me?”
“She called me.”
“Why would my surgeon call you?”
My mother looked at Vega.
Then at me.
“Because I am your surgeon.”
I stopped breathing.
For several seconds, I couldn’t understand the words.
“What?”
She swallowed.
“I didn’t operate on you.”
I stared at her.
“But you signed the report.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your surgeon asked me to review your records.”
The room seemed to tilt again, but this time I was completely awake.
My mother had been a physician for more than twenty years. I had grown up watching her come home exhausted, washing her hands at the kitchen sink long after dinner had gone cold.
When I was diagnosed, she had begged me to let her be involved.
I had refused.
Not because I didn’t trust her.
Because she was my mother.
And I couldn’t bear to see fear in the eyes of someone who loved me that much.
“You reviewed my records?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew about the pain?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because you would have come home.”
I looked away.
She was right.
That was exactly what I would have done.
