It’s mid-October 2025, and I’m home with my boys, 8 and 5, and my 3-year-old daughter. It’s not yet Halloween, but I feel disguised as someone else. My face is tomato red, inflamed and covered in a severe rash – a side effect of my breast cancer treatment.
My daughter looks up at me; her big blue eyes filled with concern. It physically hurts to smile at her, but it would be more painful for me not to. Her little voice rings out, “Mommy, I want to kiss your boo-boos.” I’m stunned. My face looks so dreadful that I had resorted to wearing a surgical mask outside of the house.
Setting my surprise aside, I kneel to her height. She purposefully takes my flaming face in her small hands, pulling me close. Her soft lips meet my rough, red chin. She pulls back, smiling expectantly.
“Does it feel better, Mommy?”
I’m telling the truth when I match her grin and nod, emotional tears in my eyes. She’d just shown me that love is the purest form of beauty.
English (US)