Dad and I waited in a hospital room for the findings from Mom’s operation. We were cautiously optimistic. I fiddled with her wedding rings, which she had given me for safe-keeping.
The diagnosis cut through our optimism like a knife.
We cried, alone in our grief. I waited for Dad to come over and put his arms around me as my mother would have. But he did not. Our roles had shifted.
I was reminded of this day years later when my father and I went to an Edwin Holgate exhibition at the National Gallery. I was drawn to a painting of a sombre girl dressed in black, sitting on a green settee with her hands folded in her lap. The plaque on the wall said, “Ludivine, 1930. This is Holgate’s portrait of a 15 year old girl at her mother’s funeral. She has just become the female head of her family and is facing all the weight and responsibility that comes with that.” Her expression perfectly captured my shift from cared-for to carer.
(image posted)
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