He studied it.
Then he adjusted the frame slightly.
“Crooked,” he announced.
I laughed.
“It wasn’t crooked!”
Dad shrugged.
“It’s always a little crooked. That’s how you know somebody lives here.”
Then he went home.
And I stood in my quiet living room, looking at the mirror he’d straightened.
I’ve thought a great deal about what Brian did.
About the money.
About the broken walls.
About his voice saying it was only a mirror.
For a long time, I thought I would hate him forever.
But hatred requires energy.
And these days, I’d rather spend mine painting rooms, listening to my father tell stories, and building a life I’m happy to wake up to.
The court made Brian pay for the damage.
I’m grateful for that.
Being told that what happened was wrong mattered more than I expected.
But money wasn’t what gave me my life back.
