“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that too.”
Mom wiped her face.
“But if that call had gone differently, we would’ve dealt with that too.”
“Together,” Dad said.
“Together. And with all available mirrors.”
That evening, Dad brought the full-length mirror back. Then he rehung the dresser mirror and returned the little vanity mirror.
“Where do youurm want this one?”
“Back where it was.”
He put it on the dresser.
Beside it, Mom placed the photograph of her mother.
She didn’t put it back in the shoebox.
Several weeks later, I stopped by and found Mom standing in front of the dresser mirror. Her swelling had gone down. She was still healing, and she wasn’t perfectly symmetrical, but she looked more like herself.
“How’s the back?” I asked.
She smiled at me through the mirror.
“Better.”
Dad appeared in the doorway.
For once, he didn’t tell her she was beautiful or perfect. He didn’t tell her what she should see.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
Mom considered her reflection.
“Like I’m 70.”
Dad laughed.
She smiled.
“And like I finally did something good for myself.”
Beside her reflection stood the little vanity mirror and the old photograph.
The picture hadn’t changed.
What it meant had.
