She drapes a towel over her shoulder hiding her left breast. Rather, the vivid red scars snaking her ribcage where her left breast was carved out.
She turns to her left, enough so that she looks whole. If she accidentally catches a glimpse of her reflection, that is.
Spraying the area with rubbing alcohol from the pump bottle — she still can’t bring herself to touch it — she switches the blow dryer to ‘low’ and dries under the towel. Then she spritzes Vitamin E and baby oil, even though it’s a lost cause. Those scars aren’t going anywhere.
She ties a robe loosely around her waist and shuffles to the kitchen. Hot cereal she enjoyed from childhood might help her feel a bit better.
A shadow crosses the window making her jump. But her imagination was playing tricks. Nobody had been in the garden since the day he left — coincidentally, the morning…