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“I’m thirty-seven,” I say. A short sentence summarizing endless suffering.

He sighs, heavy, reaching his hand over to find mine, giving it a tight squeeze. “That you are.”

His silence is my safety net. The place he’ll catch me if I fall.

“I’m scared, Dad.” A boulder lodges in my throat as my eyes burn with the confession.Scaredfeels like too small a word. I’m terrified. Thirty-seven sounds so old when you’re young, but now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem that old at all. It seems like nothing. A speck. Barely a beginning.

“If you would have known how it was all going to end with Mom, would you have done it differently?”

“God no, Birdie!” he says it so quickly—so adamantly—it startles my heart to a stop.

He smiles. “Everything in this whole world ends—we forget about that during a tragedy. Maybe it’s our way of making our misery feel special to us, but it’s another lie we tell ourselves. It’s all ending. Me, you, the trees growing all around us.” His pause prepares me for something profound. “My time with your mom was too short, but I suspect any amount of time with her would have been. I got some of it though, and I got you. Some is better than none, Birdie. Don’t you forget that.”

He looks at me until he’s sure I hear what he’s saying and pats my knee. When“I Just Want to Dance with You” starts to play, my body is so conditioned to our Thursday night routine I don’t even have to think about what comes next. I stand and so does he. Hand in hand, one arm draped over his shoulder and his palm in the middle of my back, my dad and I dance to one song just like him and my mom used to do, smiles on both of our faces as we shuffle around the porch to the voice of George Strait.

When I load the dog in the van, my dad gives me a tight hug. “You know more than your mom and grandma did, doctors know more. And you’ve had the surgery. This year will be different for you.”

When he pulls away, his smile looks almost forced, like even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. Like he’s saying it to comforthimself as much as me. I just nod. “Love you, Dad, thanks for dinner.”

“Love you too, Little Bird.”

After a too-long bath and a nightly skincare routine that involves a jade stone, jojoba oil, and red-light therapy, I drop my towel to the floor and stare into the mirror. My chest, besides the fact it looks nothing like it’s supposed to, is an unexpected work of art. Every shade of the rainbow lives on my skin.

I had known when I scheduled my mastectomy that I’d get tattoos to cover the scars. It wasn’t until a summer day driving by a field of wildflowers that I decided what I wanted. It had been a bad day, but the flowers still bloomed. Beauty when life felt anything but.

I took a dozen packets of wildflower seeds to the tattoo artist, Seth, for design ideas. I asked him to draw something that would cover everything from armpit to armpit with every color under the sun. It took multiple visits and hours with the needle poking in and out of my flesh, but once it was finished I felt a completeness that I didn’t know was missing. Closure almost. Acceptance.

I trace the colorful petals with my finger. The bumpy unevenness and scars left in the wreckage of my surgery now hidden by petals, leaves, stems, and tendrils that dance across my skin. Other than Seth, my doctor, and George Strait, not another living being has seen my chest in its entirety.

Even the men I’ve been with—despite the recent lack of traditional sex—haven’t seen me completely bare. Always in a tank top or lacy bralette. None of them ever argued or pushed for anything different. Like they didn’t want to see what I looked like as much as I didn’t want to see their faces if they did.

Tonight, I’m at peace with it. Some nights, it’s not so easy. Some nights I look at my reflection and cry and scream, but not tonight. Tonight I’m okay. Like it could be so much worse than this.

I wrap the towel back around me at the same time my phone dings.

Bo:Gran put me in my place today because I made you mad. She already likes you more than me.

I read it—twice—but don’t respond.

Bo:I’m going to call you.

I drop the phone like it’s a bomb about to detonate when it immediately starts ringing, Bo’s name flashing on the screen.

When the ringing stops:

Bo:I’m going to call again.

Again, it rings, and I stare at it on the counter, biting my lip, trying to imagine what he has to say to me. Again, I don’t answer.

Then:

Bo:Pam Beesly, last time. Please answer.

Then the ring. Once, twice, and on the third time, I push accept without speaking.

“Birdie?” His deep voice echoes through my tile-covered bathroom and I stare at the phone like he might pop through the screen.

He clears his throat. “Okay, this is nice and weird of you, but I guess it’s progress.” I can hear the smile in his voice through the speaker before his tone turns serious. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a toothpick dancing on his lips.