Then tears began sliding down her face.
“I look like her.”
Linda shook her head.
“No.”
She moved closer.
“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 would get it too.”
That surprised me more than anything else that day.
Mom never talked about being afraid of breast cancer.
She went for screenings.
Scheduled appointments.
Treated everything practically.
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 reached for his hand.
“Be scared with me.”
Dad looked up.
“Don’t be scared for me and then decide what I’m capable of handling.”
