Bianca wasn’t sure if the treatments would cure her, but there was no way she was ready to say that out loud, not to Mila. She asked herself the exact same question every day.Will the treatments get rid of the cancer?She’d asked her oncologist that question too. She didn’t have the answer, either. But the silver lining in all of this was that she did have her daughter back, for now. And that was something to hold on to, at least until the truth managed to find its way to the surface.
After they returned to Bodega Bay Bianca insisted upon going to the beach. Even though the California temperaturewasn’t all that warm, and the water was likely colder, something in her ached for it. The ocean always held a kind of healing effect for her, in a sense. It was quiet and calming, like it knew things that people had forgotten.
She sat in the water submerged just above her waist. The sun was shining, casting golden shadows across the waves. Today they were slow and steady, not like the day before, when they’d crashed heavily against the cliffs. The water was still cool against her skin, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel it—the earth, the salt, the quiet.
She closed her eyes while her fingers drifted just beneath the surface, stirring tiny ripples in the water. Each breath she took was deep and deliberate. Here, in this water, there were no doctors, no chemo, no hushed conversations about outcomes, just a steady rhythm of the tide. A seagull called out in the distance, causing her to open her eyes.
Mila stood nearby, jeans rolled up to her calves, an afghan wrapped around her shoulders. She shivered from the chill. “I can’t believe you’re out here, Mom. It’s cold,” Mila said.
“It’s not cold,” Bianca replied with a soft giggle. “Just a bit chilly.”
She closed her eyes, letting the breeze brush across her face, the sun warming her shoulders. The ocean moved gently around her. She inhaled deeply and let her fingers skim the water as Mila stood next to her in silence.
Pretty soon Bianca stood, the water sliding down her body. She took her time wading back toward the house. Mila met her with the afghan, wrapping it gently around her mother’s shoulders. Bianca offered a faint smile in thanks as they began the slow walk back up the beach, side by side.
Inside the house Bianca lit the fireplace.
“Gonna get out of these wet clothes. Last thing I need is to catch a cold,” Bianca said. “Find us some music.”
Mila nodded and connected to the Bluetooth speaker. Asoft, soulful track filled the space as Bianca disappeared into the bathroom. She stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash over her chilled skin. Afterward she pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old, wrinkled Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. Her pale face stared back at her in the mirror. Her hair was thinning in patches now. She’d noticed it days ago but kept pretending not to. She couldn’t anymore. She opened the drawer, pulled out her clippers, and clicked them on. It was time. The buzz filled the quiet. Carefully, slowly, she began to shave her head, one strip at a time.
Mila appeared in the doorway. Without saying a word, she stepped forward, gently took the clippers from her mother’s hand, and finished the job. When Bianca’s head was finally smooth and her hair was gathered on the floor at their feet, Mila handed her back the clippers.
“I want you to cut mine too.”
Bianca looked at her, startled. “Really?”
“Even out the part where it’s thinning,” she said. “It’ll grow back.”
Bianca searched her daughter’s face, as if trying to read something behind her calmness. Mila’s hair had always been her pride and joy—her crown. Long, beautiful brown hair framed her face. From the time she was little, she’d loved sitting between Bianca’s knees as she styled it, demanding the way she wanted it done. So, watching her now, saying she wanted it shaved, caused Bianca some pause, not in a bad way, but she was in awe of Mila.
“You sure, baby?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom. I want to do this with you.”
Bianca hesitated, clippers in hand. She wasn’t sure but knew this wasn’t just about hair. It was about letting go. Choosing strength. Choosing herself.
She, herself, had done it before—shaved her head during her last round of chemo. Back then, it had felt like a loss, but also a healing of sorts. With time, she’d grown less vain, lessworried about appearances. But for Mila—this was different. She was still young, still vain in some ways, still beautiful. Her hair had been her identity for so long. Bianca feared the loss would hit harder than expected, and maybe afterward she would regret it.
“I have scarves,” Bianca added, still trying to read Mila. She was trying to feel her out, to see if this was what she really wanted. “Beautiful ones.”
Mila shook her head affirmatively, stood tall, eyes clear, face calm. There seemed to be no trace of doubt. “I don’t want to cover it up anymore. I want it to breathe. I want to be free.”
Bianca blinked, emotion welling in her eyes. The words struck something deep inside her. In that moment she realized, this wasn’t just about solidarity, it was about taking her power back. Her throat tightened with emotion. She smiled through the sting … lightening the mood. “Well, okay, girlfriend.”
She took the clippers and began trimming Mila’s hair in the same slow, loving manner in which she’d started with her own. The moment was fragile. The music played on. The fire whispered in the living room.
When she was done, Bianca gently placed the clippers on the sink and took a step back. She looked at Mila in the dimly lit bathroom. And there she was, still radiant. Her beauty shone through boldly, as if nothing had been taken away, only revealed.
She grabbed her daughter’s face in her hands and smiled. “You are so … damn … beautiful.”
Mila smiled too, her eyes glossy. “Thank you. I get it from my mother.”
“Yes indeed you do.” Bianca grabbed Mila by the hand. “Now come on, let’s go bake some fish. Hopefully I can keep it down.”
They danced into the kitchen, unchoreographed movements.Mila kept up with her mother’s rhythm. Bianca pulled the fish from the fridge, seasoned it with butter, rosemary, and lemon juice, and slid it into the oven.
“Why don’t you make us a nice salad?” she told Mila.