No. It’s not just a mirror

There’s a little story that has developed here. Spring cleaning the house today and a mirror appears out of a cupboard and my wife has said,” You don’t need that, that can go.”

At this statement I jumped up and unusually for me I gave the wife a firm reply of, “No” and told her it’s not going anywhere, there is a story behind that mirror and I then poured it out to her. Just as I am about to do so now to you all.

The mirror was a purchase from a Sunday magazine sometime in the mid 80s, nothing overly expensive but it always made me smile.

I’d just left home as my father’s abusive behaviour had taken a more violent turn. I was ashamed of myself for deserting my sister and mother, but I was just so fed up of being attacked both physically and mentally that I just snapped and left home.

I was about 18, I sofa surfed for a while, occasionally I sneaked into my workplace at night and slept there, I was all over the place and then found a spare room for rent in a property close by to where I’d originally lived. I had some stability in my life at last and was learning very quickly about moving on in life and the new responsibilities I’d now taken on. I then purchased this mirror, and would smile when I looked into it, it gave me some much needed fun and laughter in my life. Something that had been in very short supply for a while.

Then one night I broke when my sister appeared at the door, to tell me my father was attacking my mother, I grabbed the nearest thing to me that just happened to be a metal pole from an old photographic enlarger and I ran like the wind to their house. I charged up the stairs to their bedroom and stood over my father telling him just how I felt, and what a B***ard he was. I was about to bring that pole down on him when I realised he was in such a drunken stupor, he didn’t even know I was there, but beside him my Mum was reaching out to me weeping and calling my name. What she told me whilst we were embracing there is highly private and will always remain so, the crux of it was that she never wanted me to leave and begged me to come home.

I was back in that house before he’d even sobered up the following day. And that mirror I’d brought was on my bedroom wall where it stayed for a good few years.

I told my wife the story, and that the cheap worthless mirror was a subtle reminder of the time I started to turn my life around. I’d overcome fear of a tyrant and become the protector of the two most important people in my life at that time, my mum and younger sister. And I stayed with them until they both stepped away from this horrific existence.

A cheap mirror it maybe. But it still makes me smile. The wife has now said it must stay and be prominent in the house.

This picture was taken today, look, I’m smiling as I’m deciding where to put it up.

May it see many more smiles.