She looked directly at Dad.
“I am seventy years old, Brad.”
Then she said it again.
“Bring me my mirror.”
Dad left the room.
When he returned, he carried the small oval vanity mirror.
Its silver-colored frame had darkened with age.
One corner was chipped.
I had seen it sitting on Mom’s dresser my entire life.
Dad held it out.
Mom took it.
Linda and I helped adjust her robe without disturbing the dressings.
Then Mom looked.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The difference was visible even through the postoperative bandages.
One side was more swollen.
The other appeared smaller.
Dad stepped closer.
“You’re still beautiful.”
Mom lifted one hand.
“Please don’t.”
He stopped.
She kept staring.
“It’s ugly right now,” she whispered.
Linda immediately said:
“It’s surgery. It’s allowed to look awful.”
A tiny laugh escaped Mom.
