Dad was waiting for us.
He fussed over Mom from the moment we arrived, carrying her bag, checking whether she needed water, asking if the seat belt had hurt her.
Then we entered their bedroom.
Mom stopped.
The large mirror above the dresser was gone.
So was the full-length mirror beside the closet.
Even the little vanity mirror she’d owned since her twenties had disappeared.
“Brad?”
Dad appeared behind us.
Mom gave an uncertain laugh. “What did you do?”
“You shouldn’t look yet.”
“The surgeon already warned me about swelling.”
Dad shook his head.
“It’s not the swelling.”
Something in his voice made me turn around.
He looked terrified.
Mom’s smile disappeared.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Dad glanced at me, then at her.
“Your surgeon called while you were asleep.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why would he call you?” I asked.
“Your mother authorized them to talk to me about her care.”
Mom stared at him. “What did he say?”
Instead of answering, Dad walked to the closet and pulled an old shoebox from the top shelf.
Mom’s face changed.
“Where did you get that?”
Dad opened it and took out an old photograph.
Before Mom could reach for it, the doorbell rang.
