Mom looked.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
The difference was noticeable even through the postoperative dressings.
One side was more swollen, yet the other looked smaller.
Dad stepped closer.
“You’re still beautiful.”
Mom raised a hand.
“Please don’t.”
He stopped.
She kept looking.
“It’s ugly right now,” she whispered.
“It’s surgery,” Linda said. “It’s allowed to look awful.”
A tiny laugh escaped Mom.
Then tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I look like her.”
Linda shook her head.
“No. You look like Cindy two days after surgery.”
Mom lowered the mirror.
“I’ve spent my whole life wondering.”
I sat closer.
“Wondering what?”
“If I’d get it too.”
That surprised me more than anything Dad had said.
Mom never talked about being afraid of breast cancer.
She went for her screenings and treated them like any other appointment.
Apparently, fear didn’t always look like fear.
Dad crouched in front of her.
“When the surgeon said ‘mass,’ all I could see was your mother.”
Mom nodded.
“So could I.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“You can’t protect me from being scared.”
“I know.”
“No.” She took his hand. “Be scared with me. Don’t be scared for me and decide what I can handle.”
