Mom laughed through her tears.
“I’d forgotten the swimming.”
“I know.”
Mom stared at her mother’s face.
For decades, that photograph had represented what cancer had taken.
Watching her now, I realized Aunt Linda had made her see something else.
Their mother was already living after it.
We waited four more days.
They were some of the longest days I can remember.
Mom healed a little each morning.
Dad brought her breakfast.
Aunt Linda stayed two nights.
I handled groceries and medication reminders.
Nobody pretended we weren’t waiting.
That was Mom’s rule.
When she was frightened, she said so.
When Dad was frightened, she made him say so too.
On the fourth afternoon, Mom’s phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Everyone stopped moving.
Mom answered.
“Hello?”
We watched her face.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then her shoulders dropped.
“Benign?”
Dad covered his mouth.
Mom closed her eyes.
“Thank you.”
She listened for another minute, asked what follow-up she needed, then ended the call.
Aunt Linda was already crying.
Mom looked at us.
“It’s benign.”
Dad sank onto the bed beside her.
I wrapped my arms around both of them while Linda leaned over us.
For several seconds, nobody said anything useful.
Then Mom started laughing and crying at the same time.
Dad pressed his forehead against hers.
“I thought I was going to lose you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that too.”
Mom wiped her face.
“But if that call had gone differently, we would’ve dealt with that too.”
Dad nodded.
“Together.”
“Together. And with all available mirrors.”
He laughed.
That evening, Dad disappeared into the garage.
He returned carrying the full-length mirror.
Then he rehung the dresser mirror.
Finally, he brought Mom the little vanity mirror.
He didn’t put it down.
“Where do you want this one?”
Mom looked at him.
“Back where it was.”
Dad placed it on the dresser.
Beside it, Mom put the photograph of her mother.
She didn’t return it to the shoebox.
Several weeks later, I stopped by and found Mom standing in front of the dresser mirror.
Her swelling had gone down considerably.
She was still healing, and she wasn’t perfectly symmetrical, but she looked more like herself.
She rolled her shoulders backward, then forward.
“How’s the back?” I asked.
She smiled at me through the mirror.
“Better.”
Dad appeared in the doorway.
For once, he didn’t say, “You’re perfect the way you are.”
He didn’t tell her she looked beautiful.
He didn’t tell her what she should see.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
Mom considered her reflection.
“Like I’m 70.”
Dad laughed.
She smiled.
“And like I finally did something good for myself.”
Beside her reflection stood the little vanity mirror and the old photograph.
The picture hadn’t changed.
Grandma was still standing there after her mastectomy, smiling between her daughters.
What it meant had.
But here is the real question: Was Brad right to remove the mirrors because he believed he was protecting Cindy, or should Cindy alone have decided what she was ready to see?
