“I didn’t want you to come home, see yourself, and panic before I could explain.”
Mom lifted the photograph.
“This is why.”
Dad looked at her.
“The moment he said they’d found a mass, I thought about your mother.”
Mom’s voice dropped.
“So did I.”
“I knew you would.”
“And you thought taking away my mirrors would stop me?”
“No.” Dad swallowed. “I thought it might give you a little time. You’re already bruised and sore. I didn’t want you looking at yourself and immediately thinking you were going through what she did.”
Mom stared at him.
Then she looked at Linda.
“When did he tell you?”
“This morning.”
“So you knew before I did.”
“Cindy, he was scared.”
Mom looked back at Dad.
“You called my sister. You dug out a picture of my mother after her mastectomy. You removed every mirror from our bedroom. And I was supposed to come home and take a nap?”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“Once you were settled.”
Mom’s eyes filled.
“That’s what they did when Mom was sick.”
Linda lowered her head.
I sat beside Mom.
“What do you mean?”
Mom ran her thumb along the photograph.
“I was 17 when she had the mastectomy. Nobody explained anything. Dad said she was having an operation and everything would be fine. Relatives came over and whispered in the kitchen. Every time Linda or I walked in, they changed the subject.”
