His coworkers thought I was his mother when I opened the door. I stopped flinching at my own reflection after that.
I stood at the front door holding it open for my husband’s new coworkers when one of them looked me over and said I must be Mark’s mother. I am only three years older than him. After they left I sank to the kitchen floor and cried while staring at the deep lines around my mouth in the oven door, the quiet suspicion that the world had started looking through me finally confirmed. That same night the constant betrayal of the mirror began to ease. The ordinary moment of recognition that returned afterward is the reason I can still look back on that evening without shame.
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