"Can I see the baby?" I asked tentatively.
My mother looked up, her eyes were red and puffy. I could tell something was wrong. When the bundle was nestled safely in my arms, I couldn't help but to notice the doctor quickly turning and looking out the window. When I removed the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny, beautiful face, I gasped. He had been born without ears.
Time proved that the baby's hearing was perfect, and only his appearance had been marred.
Many years later, as we walked home from school, I spotted him crying silently. I said nothing, but felt my heart crumble as he rushed inside into our Mother's arms.
"There was a boy, a big boy..." he choked out, "he called me a freak."
I watched him grow up to be handsome and kind. He was a favourite among his peers, and developed a passion for literature and music. I wished for years that he would be able to mingle freely with his classmates, but for some reason he could never muster the courage needed to do so.
One week my father booked an appointment with the family physician.
"Could nothing be done?" we asked.
"I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured," the doctor decided.
That was when the search began. Two years went by, then one day my mother and my brother left to the hospital and stayed there for two weeks. I asked my father millions of questions, but all he would say was "someone had the ears we needed. Someday you'll know but today is not the day."
The operation turned out to be a brilliant success, and a new man was born. His talents blossomed into genius. School and university were a series of success. He eventually married and became an elite surgeon.
"I need to know," he pleaded to my parents, "who gave me so much? I will never be able to repay them!"
"I know," my father always said, "but the agreement was that you were not to know... At least not yet."
For years, my parents kept their secret, but the day did come. It was one of the hardest and darkest days that any person must endure.
My brother stood over my mother's deathbed. Beside him our father and I stood.
Slowly but tenderly, my father brushed a thick reddish-brown locking hair from my Mother's brow, and with that action he revealed the absence of my Mother's ears.
"Your mother was glad that she never had to have her hair cut," he whispered with a smile on his face, "and no one ever thought that she was less beautiful, did they?"
My brothers cheeks were wet with tears, and as my father pulled us into his embrace, I could help but to wonder what other sacrifices my mother had made.
