After she died, eleven years ago, my father gave the mirror to me.
“She’d want you to have it,” he said. “You’re the one who stood in front of it.”
Ezoic
It was one of the few things of hers I owned. A quilt. A recipe box. A pair of reading glasses. And the mirror.
And for reasons I had never understood, it was also the one thing from the entire divorce settlement that Brian had fought hardest not to give me.
Brian didn’t care about the mirror. That was the thing. In the nine years we were married, I don’t think he ever once looked at it.
Ezoic
When I first hung it in our living room, he said, “It’s kind of old-ladyish, isn’t it?”
When we hosted his parents for Christmas, he asked if I could take it down “just for the week” because his mother thought it looked “dated.”
