I assumed he was anxious because I had just undergone surgery. I thought his silence came from ordinary fear—the kind any loving husband might feel after watching his wife disappear behind operating-room doors.
I did not know he had already lived through a nightmare I knew nothing about.
PART THREE — A HOME WITHOUT REFLECTIONS
The first sign that something was wrong appeared before I even stepped inside.
As Daniel guided me from the car, I noticed the curtains in the living room were open. Through the window, the room looked strangely unfinished, as though someone had packed in a hurry.
He opened my door and reached for me. “Slowly.”
“I’m sore, not breakable,” I murmured.
“I know.” Still, he placed an arm around my shoulders and kept it there all the way to the front door.
The moment we entered, I stopped.
The large mirror above the fireplace was missing. Two metal hooks remained in the wall, bare and awkward.
I stared at the empty space. “Did you take that down?”
Daniel did not answer.
I looked toward the hallway. The narrow mirror that usually reflected the staircase was gone too.
A cold uneasiness began to gather inside me.
I walked toward the bathroom. The mirror above the sink had been removed. Even the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet was gone.
My pace quickened as I moved to the bedroom. The full-length mirror I had owned since college had vanished. On my dresser, the jewelry box with the glass lid had been replaced by a plain wooden one. When I pulled open the closet, I found white sheets taped carefully across the mirrored sliding doors.
Every reflective surface had either been removed or hidden.
I turned around.
Daniel stood in the doorway with his shoulders rigid and his face drained of color.
“Where are the mirrors?” I asked.
He looked at the floor. “I couldn’t leave them up.”
“Why not?”
