Chapter One : The House of Mirrors (Part 2)
1075 Words
Chapter One: The House of Mirrors
(Part 2)
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Flashback: Age 13
Eliana sat on the edge of her bed, legs crossed, her schoolbooks open but unread. She could hear her mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen below. Margaret Adams was on the phone—her voice low but sharp, like a knife wrapped in velvet.
“I just don’t understand why she’s not more... engaging. Julian was always such a delight. Eliana? She’s so withdrawn.”
Eliana froze.
“She doesn’t smile in photos. I told her to smile more. People will think she’s troubled. You know how people talk.”
She wasn’t meant to hear it, but this was a familiar pattern. Margaret’s love was loud when Eliana achieved something useful—grades, awards, obedience—but quiet, cold, and even absent when Eliana needed softness.
She never asked her mother about that conversation. Instead, she smiled harder the next time they took a photo. She laughed louder at dinner. She wore what her mother called “appropriate colors” and joined clubs at school she didn’t care about just so her mother could mention it in passing to her tennis friends.
Every move was a performance, every decision vetted through one question: Will this make her proud—or punish me?
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Present Day: Therapy Begins
Eliana’s therapist, Dr. Lina Herrera, had warm eyes and a voice that didn’t rush. She had been seeing her for five sessions, and already it felt like someone had cracked open a sealed window in her life. The room smelled like sage and books, and for once, Eliana didn’t feel watched.
“How was the dinner with your parents?” Dr. Herrera asked gently.
Eliana hesitated. “Exhausting. Like usual.”
“Tell me more.”
Eliana exhaled, unsure where to start. “They talked at me. About Julian. About their lives. They didn’t ask me about mine. And when I tried to contribute, I got... corrected. Or dismissed.”
Dr. Herrera tilted her head. “How did that make you feel?”
Eliana winced. “Stupid answer, but... invisible. Like I was an extra in a scene about my own family.”
“That’s not a stupid answer.”
There was silence. Then Eliana added, “It always feels like I’m ‘too much’ or ‘not enough’ at the same time.”
“That sounds like a painful contradiction. Where do you think that message came from?”
Eliana’s chest tightened. “My mother. Mostly. But Dad never stopped her. Never defended me. He’d just sit there, silent.”
Dr. Herrera nodded slowly. “So, you were emotionally parentified. You managed your parents’ emotional climate—especially your mother’s—at the cost of your own voice.”
“I... yes. That. That’s exactly it.”
That session ended with a heavy kind of relief. Like saying the truth out loud had somehow made it real, and by being real, maybe it could finally change.
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Flashback: Age 17
The day of senior awards, Eliana stood in her gold-trimmed honor cords and navy gown. She was the valedictorian—an honor she had worked toward for years. But her hands were trembling. Her chest was tight. She knew why.
Her mother.
Margaret had insisted Eliana wear heels that didn’t fit, style her hair “like a lady,” and memorize the speech—not read it.
“No daughter of mine will look weak in front of all those parents. You’re representing me too, remember.”
On the stage, Eliana delivered the speech without mistakes. Her voice was clear. Her poise was perfect. The crowd stood in ovation.
But when she came down, Margaret’s smile was tight.
“You said ‘independent journey.’ Try not to sound like a feminist, dear. It's unattractive.”
No “I’m proud of you.” No hug. Just a reminder: You are not your own. You’re mine to sculpt.
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Present Day: A Quiet Rebellion
It started small.
Eliana bought a dress her mother would hate—rust-orange, off-shoulder, earthy. She wore it to brunch with friends and posted a photo online. For once, she felt radiant in her skin.
The next day, a text arrived.
Mom:
> “You looked unpolished in that color. Are you going through something?”
Instead of apologizing, Eliana left the message unanswered. Her hands shook with guilt, but she didn’t bend. She went on a walk instead.
Then, she set a boundary. The next time her mother called and began to criticize, Eliana interrupted.
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about my clothes today.”
Margaret paused. “Excuse me?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about my appearance right now.”
Silence. Then, “Well, I guess you’re going through a phase.”
And maybe she was. A phase of finding her voice.
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Flashback: Age 21
Eliana had just moved into her first apartment after college. It was small—just one bedroom, one window, one leaky pipe. But it was hers.
When Margaret visited, she walked in, scanned the room, and wrinkled her nose.
“This is... minimalistic,” she said, as if trying to be diplomatic.
“It’s cozy,” Eliana offered.
Her mother sat down, took a breath, then said, “Eliana, don’t get comfortable with being average.”
Those words stayed with her for years. They shaped how she chose jobs, relationships, and friendships—always reaching for more, but never sure if it was her desire or her training.
It would take her a decade to understand that “average” wasn’t a curse—it was a human experience. And that peace, not performance, was what she really craved.
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Present Day: The Mirror
It was a Friday night, and Eliana stood in front of her bedroom mirror again. But this time, she didn’t look away.
She saw the exhaustion in her eyes, but also the defiance.
She pulled out her journal.
> “This house of mirrors—they distorted me, not because they hated me, but because they hated themselves.
I became their canvas, their second chance, their legacy project.
But I am not a reflection. I am real.
And I’m going to remember who I am, even if I have to peel away every lie to get there.”
She paused. Then she wrote:
> “Step one: Stop asking for permission to be myself.”
- Writer
