Loveless Mother

The Photo Behind the Mirror

The next morning, I wait for her to leave for work. Once I hear the front door click shut and her car pull away, I sneak back into the guest room.

The music box is gone, of course. But now I’m sure—there’s something in this room she doesn’t want me to see.

I start with the drawers. Old files. A faded Bible. A stack of photo albums covered in dust. Most of them are empty. But one—one has a torn photo stuck between the pages.

It’s old. Blurry. A woman holding a baby, smiling like the world is perfect.

My heart stalls.

Because the woman looks exactly like her—except softer. Younger. She’s wearing jeans and a messy bun. She looks... happy.

And the baby?

The baby is me.

There’s no doubt. That’s my nose. My ears. Even the birthmark on my chin.

I stare at the photo for a long time. What happened to that woman? That version of her? The one who held me and smiled?

I flip the photo over. There’s a scribble in blue ink:

**"My Amara. 6 months old. Everything I live for."**

I blink fast. My chest is doing something weird again—tight, hot. Like crying is waiting just behind my ribs.

I don’t cry. I fold the photo and slip it into my pocket.

Then I turn to the mirror above the dresser. It’s dusty too, and something about it feels… off.

I touch the edge. It wobbles slightly.

It’s not screwed in.

I lift it off carefully—and behind it, taped to the wall, is a letter. Yellowed. Unopened. The name on it is smeared, but I make out two letters:

**A.M.**

My initials.

My hands shake as I peel the tape and open the envelope.

Inside: a letter written in cursive. The handwriting is familiar—hers.

> “To the daughter I couldn’t love the way I should…”

I stop reading.

Couldn’t love?

What does that even mean?

Before I can finish, I hear the front door slam shut.

She’s back.

Panic grips me. I shove the letter into my pocket and rush out of the room, closing the door behind me.

I don’t breathe until I’m back in my own room, door locked, heart racing.

For seventeen years, I thought I was the problem.

Now I’m starting to wonder if she is the one who’s broken.

And I have proof.