“Less than four minutes,” Linda answered.
Daniel let out a hollow sound that was almost a laugh. “It felt longer than the rest of my life.”
PART FIVE — THE FOUR MINUTES THAT BROKE HIM
Daniel finally looked directly at me.
“When I left the hospital, I believed your whole world had been destroyed,” he said. “And I thought I had failed you.”
I shook my head, but he kept talking, as though the words had been trapped inside him since the moment he entered the wrong recovery room.
“I kept hearing what you said the night before surgery.”
The memory returned instantly.
We had been lying in the dark, both too anxious to sleep. My head rested against his shoulder, and I had asked the question I was almost too afraid to say aloud.
“What if it makes everything worse?”
Daniel had pulled me closer. “It won’t.”
“But what if it does? I’ve spent my whole life hiding from my own face. What if tomorrow gives me even more to hide from?”
I had laughed after saying it, pretending the fear was smaller than it was.
Daniel had known better.
Now he looked around our mirrorless bedroom.
“When I came home, all I could imagine was you walking through that door and seeing yourself,” he said. “I pictured you looking into the fireplace mirror. Then the hallway mirror. Then the bathroom. I imagined every cruel thing anyone had ever said to you returning all at once.”
His breathing became uneven.
“So I started taking the mirrors down.”
He pointed toward the empty wall. “That one first. Then the one in the hall. Then the bathroom cabinet. Then your full-length mirror.”
His voice weakened. “I carried them all into the garage. I covered the closet doors because they were too heavy to move. I even replaced your jewelry box.”
I stared at him, overwhelmed by the image of my usually calm husband tearing through the house, removing every reflection while believing he was preparing for the worst day of my life.
“What did you think would happen?” I asked softly.
Daniel covered his face with both hands.
