For as long as I could remember,s. my mother had lived with back pain.
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By sixty, she couldn’t stand at the kitchen counter for long without shifting her weight every few minutes.
By sixty-eight, shopping for bras had become an ordeal.
She would order several, try them all, return them all, then go back to wearing one that left deep grooves in her shoulders
So when she turned seventy, she finally did something she had talked about for years.
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She scheduled a breast reduction.
Dad hated the idea.
“You’re perfect the way you are,” he kept telling her.
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Mom would roll her eyes.
“I’m not doing this so you’ll think I’m prettier.”
“I know that.”
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“Then stop saying it.”simo
She wasn’t trying to look younger.
She wasn’t chasing some fantasy version of herself.
