My stomach twisted.
“Nobody told you she had lost a breast?”
Mom shook her head.
“No.”
Dad leaned forward.
“Cindy, I wasn’t trying to do that to you.”
She looked toward the empty wall.
“Then bring me my mirror.”
Dad blinked.
“No.”
Mom’s head snapped toward him.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re two days out of surgery.”
“Bring me the small one.”
“Cindy.”
His voice was gentle, but firm.
“You’re bruised, swollen, bandaged, and you just found out they’re testing tissue for cancer.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t need to see this right now.”
Mom’s face changed completely.
“That’s what everybody told me when my mother was sick.”
Nobody moved.
“Don’t look.”
Her voice shook.
“Don’t ask.”
She wiped her cheek.
“Don’t worry.”
Another tear fell.
“Let someone else handle it.”