Whenever something went wrong, you automatically assumed Helen would know what to do.
The tattoo was the only part of her she kept completely private.
Everything else about my mother felt open.
That little blue flower was the one locked door.
Eventually, I decided she had a right to keep one thing to herself.
So I stopped wondering about it.
Mostly.
By the time Mom was sixty-three, I was thirty-two.
We were extremely close.
We talked several times a week about ordinary things.
She worried that I didn’t eat properly.
I worried that she spent too many hours working in her garden.
My father had died six years earlier from a sudden heart attack in his sleep.
Losing him had brought Mom and me even closer.
I helped her sort through paperwork, insurance policies, bank accounts, and all the administrative details that come with losing a spouse after forty years of marriage.
During that time, I learned all kinds of things about my parents that I hadn’t known before.
Sweet things.
Funny things.
Small details about their marriage.
By the end of it, I genuinely believed there were no major family secrets left.
I was wrong.
The truth finally came out because of my mother’s knee.
She had struggled with pain for years, always minimizing it because that was what she did with anything involving herself.
Then she fell in her driveway one winter.
After that, she finally admitted she could barely manage the stairs.
Her doctor recommended knee replacement surgery.
Everything sounded routine.
The surgeon explained that she would probably be walking with assistance that same day and home within a couple of nights.
Mom prepared for recovery like she was planning a military operation.
She checked her insurance repeatedly.
She asked for estimated charges in advance.
She moved a bed downstairs.
She installed a handrail.
She stocked her freezer with meals.
She even chose a physical therapist before surgery.
That was Mom.
Always prepared.
I still took the day off work to be with her.
Routine surgery or not, she was my mother.
That morning, the hospital was calm.
We checked in and completed the paperwork.
Eventually, a nurse named Patricia brought us into the pre-op area.
Patricia was warm and experienced, probably in her late forties, and she had the kind of relaxed bedside manner that immediately made people comfortable.
She helped Mom change into a gown, reviewed medications and allergies, and talked about recovery.
