I didn't want to take her to the first chemo treatment. Since I learned of her breast cancer diagnosis, I've tried to stay far away. My family has a way of leaning on me when things begin to turn upside-down. I've allowed this because I needed the involvement. It has been good for me to give service and work out some of the sadness and resentment that have been a permanent part of me since I was a teen.

But the timing was wrong. I was in the midst of something personal that needed my entire attention. I ignored my mother's requests to accompany her to the preliminary tests, the surgery to remove an indecently large tumor, and recovery time after the surgery. My eldest sister came instead. I left her and my mother alone. 

A month later, I found myself sitting in her driveway at nine-thirty in the morning. I finished my run at 6:00, showered and dressed by 7:00, and had been trying to work until I left to pick her up. She wouldn't be ready. Chronic tardiness has always been her hallmark. I leaned my head against the steering wheel and thought about the appointments I had canceled or postponed, and wondered if she would stop talking long enough to allow me to do the portable work now sitting on the back seat in the bag that held my computer. 

I sighed, and opened the door. I walked into the house. My grandma had the door to her rooms open and was sitting in her chair, reading. I told her good morning, and waved. Her hearing aids weren't in, but she saw me and smiled. I walked down the hallway to my mother's room.

She stood in her bathroom, half-dressed, damp hair finding the tight curls a recent perm had instilled next to her scalp. She smiled, "I'm not ready."

"I know. It's okay." I walked into the bathroom and sat on the seat of the toilet, waiting for her to finish. "How are you feeling?"

"Nervous."

"No, I meant since they put the port in yesterday. Any post-surgery pains?"

"No. It still feels numb. I don't know what to wear."

"Finish your hair. You'll decide in a minute."

I watched her straighten the tight curls. She chattered aimlessly. Did I like her perm? My cousin had given it to her that weekend. Had I seen my nephews lately? Did I see the flowers brought by a family friend?

A thousand emotions seethed...anger that this was happening, frustration that my father was gone leaving me to escort my mother to therapy, confusion as to why I didn't decline the assignment when he asked me. Beneath struggled memories of my past. Three year old Samantha, watching as her mother combed her smooth adult hair, loving every movement, wanting only to grow up and be just like her. Six year old Samantha, noticing the softness of each mother curl, comparing it to those of her own, tight and unruly, wishing somehow to loosen those curls. Fourteen year old Samantha, choosing a hair style as far from Mom's as possible, trying everything in her power to be different, bristling at each well-meaning comment finding similarities between her face that the one she had grown to hate with the purity and intensity only a teen can muster.

I stood up, leaning against the wall behind her, watching as she combed and curled. My mother's eyes are turquoise, still brilliant, remarkable in depth and sparkle. Mine are brown, often blending with the blackness of the pupils, occasionally lightening to frame them. I watched her eyes, feeling once again a stab of envy, wishing for the extraordinary blue she takes for granted. The hair lining her aging face has turned stark white. It's lovely.

"Your hair is a beautiful color," I said.

She smiled, "I'm lucky, I guess. Other people have told me that."

"Yes." Once again resentment filled me as I remembered finding my first grey hair. I was thirteen. It was stress-grey--still dark at the roots, the pigment changed because of trauma. By the time I was sixteen, however, gray was shot sparsely throughout my dark curls. It was largely unnoticeable until I was twenty-one. Then I discovered Performing Preference, by L'Oreal, because "I'm worth it." From that moment on, my hair became whatever color caught my fancy on the store shelf. 

Memories of the many times I had been compared to her trickled through my head. I don't look like her. Our facial structure, bones structure--all different. Her skin is fair and freckled. Mine has rarely known a sunburn. But I am the only one of her daughters with hair as dark as hers, and I am also the only one who did not grow beyond five and one-half feet. People wish to find similarities within families. They see what they wish to see.

Tabitha is often compared to me. She looks very much like Darrin's family. She has adorable dimples in her chin and cheeks. Her face is heart-shaped. Her mouth is larger than mine, as is her nose, but still, standing side by side, people will remark at how she resembles me. My response is to thank them and to tell them I'm highly complimented because I think my daughter is beautiful. Tabitha glows. It does not bother her to look like me.

"Your hair is a lovely color, and the contrast with your eyes beautiful." I meant the compliment. It was true. Mom looked embarrassed and began, as she always did, to diminish what I had said. "I'm not beautiful. I never have been." Frustrated, I stopped her. 

I wanted to say something scathing--to hurt her for not accepting my compliment. A million thoughts filled my heads, warring with one another for expression. Suddenly, with clarity, I knew what I wished to say. Briefly, I told her about Tabitha's reaction when compared to me. Without drama, I told her my response--it was a compliment for people to say that, for Tabitha is lovely. Then I said this, "People have told me I'm beautiful. And they've said we look similar. Therefore, you are beautiful. I think you need to look in the mirror and see it."

She laughed and began to brush off the compliment one more time. I insisted, "You don't think I'm beautiful?"

The laugh left her. "I have always thought you were beautiful." The words were said softly, wistfully. 

My eyes met hers in the mirror. "Then you are, too. We look alike, remember? I'll be waiting for you in the car."

I walked out of the house, wondering what I had just done. The confusion, anger, and frustration continued to boil, but quietly, without the edge of bitterness I had felt when I entered the house. I got in my car and buckled my seat belt, still thinking. 

In becoming whole, I must own all the hurt and sadness of my past. But I don't have to live with it, nor do I have to perpetuate it. My mother has lived her entire life hearing the voices of her own abusers. I don't have to be one of them. I cannot change anything but my future. My mother will know, from this point forward, that I no longer cringe when compared to her, that I'm glad to be her daughter regardless of what that means to her, and that I think she's beautiful.