I stepped between her and her reflection, gently lifting the damp towel to her face. She didn’t resist as I wiped away the smudged mascara.
“What’s happening?”
Her lips parted as if to answer, but no words came.
I set the towel aside and scooped her up in my arms, cradling her against my chest as I carried her to the bed. Gently, I laid her down, the satin robe slipping slightly as she adjusted herself. I knelt in front of her, bringing us face-to-face.
“Talk to me.”
She whimpered, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for ignoring you this week. I... I needed time to think.”
“It’s okay,” I crooned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Why were you saying those things about your body in the mirror?”
She gripped the robe tighter against her body as she swallowed hard. “M-My mom,” she stammered.
“Your mom?” I repeated, leaning in slightly, trying to piece it together.
“When I was younger, she used to make me sit in front of the mirror. She’d point out everything that wasn’t ‘perfect’—my stomach, my thighs, my breasts were the biggest things. She’d tell me what I needed to fix, like it was some kind of lesson in self-improvement.” Her eyes flicked away from mine, filled with shame. “She said it was meant to make me better, to help me see my flaws so I could fix them. All it did was make me hate what I saw.”
“Charlie.”
Hearing her words stirred a deep mix of anger and sadness. Anger at the woman who had done this to her, and sadness for the younger Charlie who had endured it. She’d carried this pain for so long, taught to see herself as flawed. She deserved so much more—to feel whole, beautiful, and free from those harmful expectations.
“I think with the phone call, it all came bubbling to the surface.”
“Have you been doing this all week?”
Charlie nodded.
“Honey,” I whispered. “You . . .”
I didn’t have the words. She couldn’t see herself as the woman I saw every single day. She saw herself as flawed, but I saw her as selfless, beautiful, and warm.
“Stand up,” I said, getting to my feet. I reached toward her, and she looked at me, her eyes wide.
“Please?” I asked, and she nodded and grabbed my hands. I led her back to the mirror.
“I can’t change how you see yourself. I don’t have that power. Only you have that power within yourself. I learned that with my disease. I couldn’t change for someone else, I had to do it for me.”
She nodded, her lower lip trembling as she held back tears.
I moved behind her, my hands gently gathering her long, golden hair. “What I can do is show you who I see.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes met mine.
“Can I show you? Can I show you what I see?”
Her lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping. “Yes.”
She turned back toward the mirror, and I began with her hair, running my fingers through the soft strands.
“Your hair is beautiful,” I murmured, brushing it over one shoulder. “Its honey color catches the light in ways that make it impossible not to notice.”
I slowly trailed my hands down. We both watched as I traced the outline of her face.
“Your eyes,” I whispered, looking into the wide amber pools reflected in the mirror. “Always so curious, like they want to see everything the world has to offer.”
I softly brushed my thumbs along her cheekbones. “And these ears,” I said, my voice lower now, “they listen—not just to words, but to what people aren’t saying. You hear what others miss.”
