He said nothing.
“You found an old photograph of my mother after her mastectomy.”
Still nothing.
“You removed every mirror from our bedroom.”
Her eyes filled.
“And I was supposed to come home and take a nap?”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“Once you were settled.”
Mom looked away.
“That’s what they did when Mom was sick.”
Linda’s eyes dropped.
I sat beside Mom.
“What do you mean?”
Mom ran her thumb across the photograph.
“I was seventeen.”
Her voice had changed.
“Mom went into the hospital, and nobody explained anything.”
She looked at me.
“Dad told us she needed an operation and everything would be fine.”
Relatives came to the house.
They whispered in the kitchen.
Every time Cindy or Linda walked into the room, adults changed the subject.
“I found out what had happened because I walked into her bedroom while she was changing.”
