Reflections

The bathroom felt quieter than the rest of the house.

Maybe it always had.

Or maybe it was just the mirror.

I stood there, staring at my reflection without really looking at it. The mirror was smaller than the others in the house, its wooden frame faded with age, one corner slightly chipped. It was ordinary in every possible way.

Yet somehow...

It was the hardest one to face.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the sink as I lowered my eyes, letting out a slow breath.

I hated mirrors.

Not because I disliked how I looked.

Because of who I looked like.

My house had mirrors everywhere.

The hallway.

The living room.

The dining area.

Every bedroom.

When I was younger, I used to think every house looked like this. It wasn't until I visited Lara's home that I realized ours was different. She had one mirror near the entrance and another in her parents' room.

That was it.

I remember asking my father once why our house had so many.

He smiled before looking toward my mother.

"Because your mom loves them."

Back then, I laughed and accepted the answer without another question.

Now...

I wished he had never put them up.

Every mirror in this house had once reflected the woman he loved.

Now they only reflected the daughter she left behind.

My mother was beautiful.

There was no denying it.

She had the kind of beauty people noticed the moment she walked into a room. Perfect features. Long dark hair that always looked flawless. Clear skin. A smile that cameras seemed to adore.

People admired her.

Complimented her.

Talked about her.

And whenever they looked at me...

They smiled the same way.

"You look exactly like your mother."

I heard those words all my life.

Neighbours.

Teachers.

Relatives.

Even strangers.

They all meant it as a compliment.

I never took it that way.

Every time someone said it, I found myself wishing for something impossible.

I wished I had inherited my father's eyes.

Or his smile.

Maybe even the shape of his nose.

Anything.

Anything that would've made me look a little less like her.

Sometimes I'd stand in front of a mirror, searching for even the smallest resemblance to him.

A different eyebrow.

A familiar smile.

Anything.

But all I ever found was my mother staring back at me.

I wondered if she had ever looked at me and seen herself.

Maybe that's why she couldn't bear to look at me.

Or maybe...

She simply never wanted to.

I splashed cold water across my face.

The icy shock pulled me back into the present.

Droplets rolled down my cheeks before disappearing into the sink.

I looked up again.

Just for a second.

The same face.

The same eyes.

The same reflection.

I looked away almost immediately.

"Not today."

The words escaped my lips before I realized I had spoken.

People often think memories fade with time.

I don't think they do.

The important ones don't.

They simply become quieter.

Waiting.

Waiting for something small to wake them up again.

A smell.

A song.

A mirror.

Not every memory of my childhood was painful.

Some of them were the reason I kept going.

My father loved spending time with me whenever he wasn't working.

We'd bake together.

Or at least we'd try.

Most of the time, we ended up making more of a mess than actual food.

Flour would somehow find its way into my hair.

Chocolate would end up on my nose.

And he'd laugh as though it were the funniest thing in the world.

He always said cooking wasn't about perfection.

"It just has to taste like home."

Back then...

Home tasted warm.

Mom was rarely there.

She was always busy.

Meetings.

Photo shoots.

Events.

Phone calls that somehow lasted longer than dinner.

As a child, I didn't understand any of it.

Dad always told me not to disturb her while she worked.

So I didn't.

Whenever she came home, I'd smile, hoping she'd ask about my day.

Sometimes she did.

Most of the time, she walked past me without noticing.

Dad noticed enough for both of them.

He'd ask how school was.

Help me with homework.

Read stories before bed.

He never complained.

Not in front of me.

Looking back...

I think he was trying to protect me from something I wasn't old enough to understand.

The house changed long before our family did.

At least...

That's how I remember it.

The laughter disappeared first.

Then family dinners became quiet.

Conversations became shorter.

Smiles became rare.

Sometimes I'd hear my parents arguing late at night.

Never loudly.

Never enough for me to understand what they were saying.

Only enough to know they weren't happy.

The next morning, Dad would smile as though nothing had happened.

"Morning, Peanut."

He'd ruffle my hair.

Ask what I wanted for breakfast.

Pretend everything was normal.

I believed him.

Children always believe the people they love.

One memory refused to leave me, no matter how many years passed.

I couldn't have been older than seven.

Dad was away on a work trip.

I remember missing him before the day had even started.

The house felt different whenever he wasn't home.

Quieter.

Colder.

I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, lining up my stuffed animals into what I proudly called a tea party, when a strange smell drifted into the room.

Something was burning.

I wrinkled my nose.

"Dad forgot something..."

The thought made no sense.

He wasn't home.

Curiosity pulled me toward the kitchen.

Smoke curled lazily from the slightly open oven.

Mom stood in front of it, one hand gripping a baking tray with an oven mitt while the other held her phone against her ear.

The cake had burned.

She looked frustrated.

For a moment, I smiled.

Dad and I baked all the time.