“You should write that down. It’s one of the better things you’ve said.”
He smiled.
“I’ll put it in the photo album.”
As winter turned toward spring, I made gradual progress. My speech became clearer, although certain words still required extra effort. I learned which foods were comfortable to eat and which ones I’d have to avoid for a while.
I also began seeing a counselor who worked with patients adjusting to changes in appearance after cancer treatment.
At first, I told her I felt foolish worrying about my face when I was fortunate to be alive.
She shook her head.
“You can be grateful for your treatment and still grieve what you’ve lost. Those feelings don’t cancel each other out.”
That conversation stayed with me.
I stopped forcing myself to feel positive every morning. Some days I liked the woman in the mirror. Other days I didn’t.
Meanwhile, Joanna’s wedding approached.
One afternoon, I overheard her talking to Raymond in the kitchen. I had come downstairs to get a glass of water and stopped when I heard my name.
“Dad, I’m worried Mom’s pushing herself too hard,” Joanna said.
“She’s been doing better.”
“I know. But she keeps talking about the wedding like it’s something she has to prove she can do.”
Raymond was quiet.
“I don’t want her standing through the whole ceremony if she’s exhausted,” Joanna continued. “I’d rather change everything than have her hurt herself trying to make me happy.”
I stood in the hallway, listening.
“You know your mother,” Raymond said. “Once she decides something matters, it’s hard to slow her down.”
“Then we need to make sure she knows she can change her mind. I want her there, Dad. But I want her healthy more.”
I stepped back before they noticed me.
For months, I’d been afraid Joanna would be embarrassed by my appearance. I’d imagined her worrying about the photographs, the guests, and what people might say.
But the thing she’d been worried about was whether I would sacrifice my recovery for her wedding.
That evening, I asked her to sit with me on the porch.
“I heard you talking to your father earlier,” I admitted.
Joanna looked uncomfortable.
“Mom, I wasn’t trying to go behind your back.”
“I know. And you were right.”
She frowned.
“About what?”
“I’ve been treating your wedding like a test. As though if I can walk down the aisle and smile for the pictures, everything will be all right again.”
Joanna reached for my hand.
“Mom, you don’t have to prove anything to me.”
I looked down at our hands.
“I think I’ve been so afraid of what people might see that I forgot to ask what you actually needed.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“I need my mom. That’s it.”
I smiled a little.
“Even with this face?”
Her eyes filled.
“Especially with that face. It’s the one that got you back to us.”
We sat together until the porch light came on.
A month before the wedding, Joanna brought her dress to our house for one final fitting.
She stepped out of my bedroom wearing the gown, and I felt tears rise before she even turned around.
“Well?” she asked.
“Honey, you look wonderful.”
She studied herself in the mirror.
“You really think so?”
“I wouldn’t tell you otherwise.”
She grinned.
“That’s true. You told me my eighth-grade haircut looked like a mushroom.”
“It did look like a mushroom.”
We laughed together.
Then Joanna took my hand and pulled me in front of the mirror beside her.
For a moment, I wanted to move away. My scars were visible above the collar of my blouse, and my smile still pulled unevenly to one side.
Joanna put her arm around my waist.
“There,” she said. “That’s how I want our pictures.”
I looked at our reflections.
She was a grown woman in a wedding dress, and I was her mother, changed by an illness neither of us had expected.
But I could still see us.
The little girl who used to stand on my feet while we danced in the kitchen was getting married, and she wanted me beside her.
On the morning of the wedding, Raymond helped me fasten the clasp of a pearl necklace that had belonged to my mother. I wore a navy-blue dress Joanna had chosen with me, comfortable shoes, and a light wrap in case the church was cold.
I stood in front of the bedroom mirror for several minutes.
Raymond came to the doorway.
“Ready?”
“Almost.”
He waited.
“Do you think people will stare?” I asked.
He came over and stood beside me.
“Some might. Most will probably be too busy looking at Joanna. And the people who love you are going to be glad you’re there.”
I turned toward him.
“You sound like our daughter.”
“She’s a smart woman.”
He offered me his arm.
“Come on. We don’t want to be late to our own daughter’s wedding.”
The ceremony was beautiful.
Joanna stood between us at the back of the church, holding her bouquet with both hands. When the music began, Raymond took her right arm, and I took her left.
We walked slowly.
I was aware of the guests turning toward us, but I didn’t search their faces for judgment. I watched Joanna instead. Her eyes were shining, and she kept looking toward Michael, who was waiting at the front of the church.
Halfway down the aisle, she squeezed my hand.
“Love you, Mom,” she whispered.
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
At the front, Raymond kissed her cheek. I leaned forward and kissed the other one.
Joanna hugged me carefully, then turned toward the man she was about to marry.
I took my seat beside Raymond and watched the ceremony through tears.
Later, at the reception, the photographer gathered us for family pictures. She asked Joanna and Michael to stand together, then brought Raymond and me beside them.
I felt myself becoming self-conscious again.
The photographer adjusted the angle of the group and asked us to move a little closer.
“Everybody ready?”
I started to arrange my mouth into what I hoped would look like a normal smile.
Joanna noticed.
“Mom,” she said softly, “just look at me.”
I turned toward her.
She was smiling at me with the same expression she’d worn as a little girl when she’d done something she was proud of.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” she said.
I smiled back before I could think about it.
The camera clicked.
That was the photograph Joanna eventually chose to frame.
In it, Raymond is standing beside me with his hand resting on my shoulder. Michael has his arm around Joanna, and she’s looking at me instead of the camera.
My smile is crooked.
The scar along my neck is visible.
And I look happy.
A few weeks after the wedding, Joanna invited us to dinner at her new home. She’d hung the photograph in the hallway, right beside the front door.
I stopped when I saw it.
“You picked that one?” I asked.
She came out of the kitchen carrying a dish towel.
“Of course. It’s my favorite.”
“There were plenty where everyone was looking at the camera.”
“I know. But in this one, you’re laughing.”
I studied the picture again.
She was right.
I wasn’t posing or trying to hide anything. I was laughing because my daughter had said something that made me happy.
Raymond came up behind us.
“That’s a good picture,” he said.
Joanna grinned.
“See? Dad agrees with me.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he answered.
We went into the kitchen, where Michael was trying to rescue a pan of vegetables he’d left in the oven too long. Joanna complained about his cooking, Raymond offered advice nobody had asked for, and I sat at the table listening to them tease one another.
It was an ordinary family evening.
And after everything that had happened, ordinary felt wonderful.
When we got home, I took the old blue photo album from the living room shelf.
I turned past the county fair, the graduation pictures, and the photograph of me wearing the yellow dress with the unfortunate shoulder pads. Then I opened the back cover, where Raymond’s folded note was still tucked between the pages.
I added a copy of Joanna’s wedding photograph beside it.
For a while, I looked at the two pictures—the woman I’d been before surgery and the woman I was now.
Then I closed the album and set it back on the shelf.
Raymond called from the kitchen.
“Marianne, do you want some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“Honey?”
“What?”
“You left your reading glasses on the coffee table again.”
I smiled as I went to get them.
It wasn’t the smile I’d had before.
But it was mine.
