My seven-year-old tiptoed into my study, her hands behind her back.
“Please don’t be angry," she sobbed.
“What’s wrong, Susan?"
She showed her hands. I gasped. She held the antique mirror I had given Carol two years before the accident. The mirror was cracked. A thin line curved across the surface, but it was still useable.
“I’m so sorry, daddy, I---“
I scooped her up. Susan clung to me, her tears moistened my cheek. I buried my face in her hair. It smelled like Carol’s. The mirror felt warm against my back.
Carol was the perfect wife. Our marriage had been mystical. But her death in an auto wreck had devastated me, enraged me, changed me into a person I didn't like.
After her funeral, I had entered Carol’s dressing room. Her makeup, tooth brush, the mirror—so intimate—like body parts. Strands of hair clung to her brush. I inhaled the scent of her perfume. I exited without touching anything.
The mirror was Carol’s favorite gift, something wooden for our fifth anniversary. Carved on the ebony back were two doves on a branch beneath a full moon. The birds and moon were inlayed ivory.
She had touched the carvings. “Our family," she had whispered. Her voice had been velvet, her tears were streams of silver light.
Carol’s death had distanced me from my daughter. I looked at Susan and saw Carol. I was angry that my wife had hurt me so, had left before our dreams were realized. I didn’t want to be hurt again, didn’t ever again want to fall so deeply in love with a human being, so I had built an emotional shield between Susan and me.
That night, my daughter dissolved all barriers. She clung warm and needy against my chest, desperately. She wept for several minutes. It was insane to deny this child my unconditional love. Finally, Susan looked up, “Mommy is still here."
“Of course, Susan, look in the mirror—those eyes, hair, perfect lips. You even smell like mommy. She’s here when I look at you."
“No, daddy," Susan said, “mommy is really here. She speaks to me. She told me to get the mirror."
A child's imagination does strange things. I squeezed her and wept.
“I’ll put the mirror back in mommy’s room."
“No, sweetheart, it’s yours to keep forever."
“I have the perfect place for it."
She kissed me, slipped from my lap and left the room.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. An enormous weight had risen from my soul. I had forgiven Carol for dying and allowed my daughter back into my heart.
A few seconds later, I felt Susan's gentle hands brush away my tears. I smiled and opened my eyes.
But, no one was there.
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