I half-wondered if I should return to the bathroom and climb through the mirror, then send out the other girl, the one who was sixteen. She could handle this, I thought. She would not be afraid, like I was. She would not be hurt, like I was. She was a thing of stone, with no fleshy tenderness.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT happened in the days that followed. Even now, as I scrutinize the components of the confrontation — the threat, the denial, the lecture, the apology — it is difficult to relate them. When I considered it weeks later, it seemed I had made a thousand mistakes, driven a thousand knives into the heart of my own family.
I tried to forget that night. For the first time in fifteen years, I closed my journal and put it away. Journaling is contemplative, and I didn’t want to contemplate anything.
It was the same mirror I’d gazed into as a child, then as a girl, then as a youth, half woman, half girl.