Emily rested against me.
“I’m sorry I told you I was dying.”
“I was so frightened when you called. I thought I might never see you again.”
“I know, Mom. I’ll never do that again.”
Before breakfast, Emily showed me a message she’d drafted for Maya, suggesting coffee when she returned to campus.
She put her phone aside.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if I regret the surgery itself.”
“You don’t have to decide that today.”
She nodded.
“But I regret why I did it.”
I kissed her head.
I remembered that frightening call, the four-hour journey, and my terror when Emily claimed something was wrong with her heart.
Her heart had never been medically damaged.
Instead, someone she trusted had convinced her that her face needed fixing.
So here’s the question: Could you forgive your daughter for making you believe she was dying, knowing how deeply she’d been suffering?
