For as long as I could remember, my mom complained about her back.
By 60, she couldn’t stand at the kitchen counter for long without shifting her weight. By 68, even buying a bra had become exhausting. So for her 70th birthday, she finally scheduled the breast reduction surgery she’d talked about for decades.
Dad wasn’t happy.
“You’re perfect the way you are,” he kept telling her.
“I’m not doing this so you’ll think I’m prettier,” Mom said. “I want to garden without my shoulders aching. I want to cook dinner without sitting down halfway through.”
The surgery went well.
At least, that’s what I thought when I drove her home two days later.
Dad fussed over her, carrying her bag and asking if she needed anything. Then we entered their bedroom.
Mom stopped.
The large mirror above the dresser was gone. So was the full-length mirror beside the closet. Even the little vanity mirror she’d owned since her twenties had disappeared.
“Brad? What did you do?”
Dad looked terrified.
“You shouldn’t look yet.”
“The surgeon already warned me about swelling.”
“It’s not the swelling.”
Mom’s smile disappeared. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Dad hesitated.
“Your surgeon called while you were asleep.”
“Why would he call you?”
“Because you authorized them to talk to me about your care.”
Before he could explain, the doorbell rang.
It was my aunt Linda, Mom’s younger sister. She had driven nearly an hour after Dad called her that morning.
When Mom saw her, she immediately understood that something was wrong.
“Everybody upstairs,” she said.
Back in the bedroom, Mom sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Give me the photograph.”
Dad hesitated, then handed her an old picture.
