The original glass was gone.
I would never again see exactly the same reflection I’d seen as a fifteen-year-old girl standing in Grandma Lena’s bedroom.
But he hadn’t taken my memories.
He hadn’t taken my father’s love.
And he hadn’t taken my ability to rebuild a life that belonged to me.
I keep the piece of antique glass in my jewelry box now.
It rests beside Grandma Lena’s reading glasses and my mother’s wedding ring.
Sometimes I take it out and hold it toward the light.
My reflection still looks like it’s underwater.
Then I put it back.
And I stand in front of the restored mirror hanging in my living room.
The clear glass shows a different woman.
One who survived a painful divorce.
One who walked into a damaged house and found the courage to document everything rather than fall into another argument.
