The Mirror

          The girl was perhaps twelve when her mother left - she didn’t know where. It would be a long trip, her mother had mentioned, though Clara hadn’t done anything to stop her, nor had Clara cared when her mother admitted she had no clue how long she would be gone. All she knew for sure was that, in her mother’s haste to pack up, she hadn’t said goodbye - merely pressed a small, silver mirror into the little girl’s palm and left, holding a cap in one hand and a large square case in the other.

<--------->

  The night before her mother’s abrupt departure, the girl had heard her parents arguing through the thin wooden walls of their two-bedroom apartment. Her father’s tone was pleading while her mother’s sounded harsh and strong. She had used that tone on her before -  once when she had trekked into the flat with mud on her new shoes when she was eight, and another time when she had spilled ink on a correspondence her mother had been writing.

“Please don’t do this Dalia,” her father spoke with a heaviness she had never heard before. “Think of Clara.” That part was spoken more quietly, as though he knew she was eavesdropping.

“Think of me.” her mother retorted harshly. “And when will you acknowledge my  

unhappiness? I love someone else and will not waste that for any of you. Get her a new mom 

if you care so much.”

“Now you’re just being selfish. Clara needs you, more than I, which is why I beg you to stay, if only for her sake.” he sounded as though he already knew the answer.

“No. I’ll pack my bags in the morning.” She heard her mother’s distinct footsteps as she walked out of the bedroom and towards the big black suitcase sitting in the kitchen corner - accumulating dust since it was stationed there years ago. Clara closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep on the small cot she called her room as she listened to the footsteps retreating.

    That night, a single tear rolled down her cheek as she watched the lone candle in the kitchen burn out.

<--------->

    When her father came home that evening, he immediately noticed the piece of glass she held in her tiny hands; though he made no comment. A mere glance of sorrow was all he spared it before returning his gaze to hers. 

   “How was school?” he asked, hanging his drenched coat on the hanger by the door. But the child didn’t answer, instead, she glanced out the window where gray clouds were beginning to roil in anticipation of a storm. Her father’s brows furrowed. “That bad?” he questioned, a slight smile on his face as he came to stand beside her, slinging an arm over her shoulder. Again the girl said nothing as a single drop of rain spattered against the window from the force of the howling wind outside. They stood that way for a while in the dark, without the electricity they couldn’t afford. Neither spoke or looked anywhere but out at the pouring rain drenching the city beyond. They were all that was left of their family, and in that silent company, with her father’s arm encompassing her little frame in warmth, she uttered that single word:

   “Why?”

     Her father avoided her gaze and only continued staring out the window as he replied.

   “Because she was looking for something she could not find here.”

    Whether her father realized that she was asking about her mother’s infidelity or simply why she had left, Clara did not know. She was only asking for an answer, anything, to help her grapple with the fact that her mother did not love her. Every smile and every laugh they had ever shared had been a lie. She had loved another man, been a part of another family, and had still kept up this farce of her caring. At that moment, Clara realized how truly empty she felt, and how not for the first time, she began to cry.

    The mirror slipped from her clammy, trembling little fingers, and shattered on the floor…

<-------->

    Months passed in desolation. Clara stayed mostly alone in the barren apartment while her father worked longer shifts to pay for part-time heating now that winter was approaching. Clara, meanwhile, stayed bundled in a gray, paper-thin blanket in an attempt to keep warm. Her efforts were proven futile, and she could see her breaths disappearing in puffs as they faded into the dark.

     Sitting there in the cold, shivering as she watched snowflakes gather on the windowsill, she wondered about her mother. Where was she? Would she ever come home? She knew that in the moment of her mother leaving she had felt nothing, and in a way, she still didn’t, but she couldn’t very well rip the memories from her brain and pretend they hadn’t made her happy.

Reaching under her cot, her hand searched blindly for the small mirror she had received only months ago. Pulling it out, she curled up on the bed and stared longingly into the cracked face of her reflection. She couldn’t see her eyes in the glass - that piece had fallen out and been lost since the night she dropped it in front of the window. But she didn’t need to see her reflection to know what was there: black hair, pale skin, high cheekbones - just like her mother. The world had a cruel sense of humour to make her look like the woman who’d lied and abandoned their family. No, she would not think about that day. She would not think about that moment her mother pushed this pitiful mirror into her hand.

  Right at that moment, she heard the distinct click of the key turning in the lock and her father’s familiar figure stepping into the room - his coat drenched from snow and his briefcase dripping on the already warped wood floor. Tucking the mirror under her bed once more, Clara padded over to him and slipped the blanket from around her shoulders, silently offering it to her father who had just finished taking his shoes off by the door. He took it, wrapped it around her once more, kissed the top of her head, and walked to his room with a quiet “Goodnight”.

“Goodnight,” she called after him.

<-------->

  The next few years were the same. Her father came home exhausted from work to find her either doing homework on the floor near the window or having already gone to bed - a plate of dinner set out for him on the kitchen counter. He’d smile when he saw her and he would always, without fail, kiss her on the forehead before going to sleep himself. 

       It had become their little routine, until one day, Clara’s father came home with a small box wrapped with a ribbon bow in his hands. He had a huge smile plastered on his face as he came over to her and put a hand on her shoulder - nodding to the box in his hand.

       She was sitting on the floor, squinting at a word problem she couldn’t quite see clearly in the dark when she noticed the box. Shooting him a curious glance, Clara opened the box.

       A simple note was scrawled inside: Happy birthday, Sweetheart.

       Smiling through the tears, she looked up at her father before jumping to her feet and strangling him with a hug. Sniffling, she removed the note and stared down at the whole, brand-new mirror nestled amongst the tissue paper. 

       This time, she could see her eyes - her father’s eyes.