There was a doctor who came to check on his patient shortly after surgery. She was in her room, and her young husband stood by the bed. His love for her was generous. All encompassing. The doctor almost felt as if he was intruding.
The surgeon had meticulously removed a tumor from her jaw, taking great care to preserve the curve of her chin. But there had been no choice about one facial tendon. The tiny twig of connection had to be severed. This left her with a Mona Lisa smile.
"Will I always look like this?" she asked with a wobble in her voice.
"Yes. It was unavoidable." It was not an apology, but it might have been.
Her husband looked into her face tenderly.
"I think it's kind of cute."
He leaned down gently, bending his own mouth to mirror hers. He wanted her to know that their kiss still worked.
The physician cleared his throat and turned to leave the room. There was more information he could have given, but it could wait. As he walked down the hall he wondered which mattered more. What his patient's face looked like, or what her husband saw?
