The Mirror Never Lies...
There are moments in a woman’s life when nothing is happening, and everything is. This was one of those moments.
It had taken me years to embark on this journey. Years of becoming someone who could stand still long enough to arrive here. Years of learning how to survive without mistaking it for living.
I was alone in a room dressed for celebration, though celebration felt like the wrong word. Outside, chairs were arranged with ceremonial precision. Flowers behaved under the summer skies. The sound of giggles and anticipation drifted through the garden.
Inside, there was only stillness.
And a mirror.
For most of my life, mirrors had been adversaries. They were not cruel, just honest. They recorded what I tried to ignore. They remembered what I pretended not to notice. They had watched me flinch, negotiate, disguise, apologise.
But that day, the mirror did something different.
It held me.
I stood there, Veuve Cliquot glass in hand, chilled to perfection, the bubbles rising with an enthusiasm I didn’t share, and let my eyes rest on the woman looking back. She was composed. Deliberate. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with approval. There was no apology in her posture. No shrinking. No rehearsed self correction.
I stared longer than was polite. Longer than was comfortable. Long enough for the reflection to shift.
At first, it was subtle. A tightening around the eyes. A hesitation in the gaze. Then she appeared properly. Not the woman the room was dressed for, but the one beneath her. The one who hadn’t slept easily. The one whose body still carried quiet discolorations, carefully concealed, strategically placed beneath fabric and makeup. Bruises softened by time and effort, but not erased.
