Emotional Support Mirror

[content warning for transphobia and language]

My mom was waiting for me at the front door when I got home from school that day. Based on her stormy expression and the report card crumpled in her fist, I could already guess which lecture she was gearing up for, so I swerved and went through the garage door instead. 

“Chelsea!” she shouted after me, hurrying down the front steps so she could keep bothering me, “Get your ass back here. We need to talk about this.” 

“No, we don’t,” I said, booking it as fast as I could towards the stairs. “And stop calling me that.”

“This is getting out of hand. At this rate, you won’t get into college, and I will not let you end up like your uncle!”

At the top of the stairs, I turned to look at her. She was standing four steps below me, one hand on the banister, and there was genuine anger in her eyes. 

I leaned down, getting in her face a little. “What makes you think you have any say in how I turn out, huh? It didn’t work before, did it?” Her expression twisted, rage blooming on her face, but before she could say anything, I retreated into my room and slammed the door shut behind me. I could hear her yelling outside, but I did my best to tune her out. I’d gotten the last word, after all. 

Letting out a heavy sigh, I finally let the weight of the day catch up to me. It hit me in stages–first through a headache that pounded at my temples, then a heaviness in my limbs that nearly sent me to my knees, and finally a deep and pervasive exhaustion. I let my backpack fall off my shoulder and crash to the ground before moving to the battered vanity in the corner. A message was already waiting for me in the mirror. Green letters, the “l”s curled at the ends. 

Hello. 

I picked up a “red” Expo marker from the cup full of pens on the desk and uncapped it. 

Hey, I wrote back. 

How was your day? asked the mirror. The “y” is curled too. Nathan has always had really curly handwriting–it was the first thing I knew about him, that he wrote in an elegant, sloping script. Founding Father-esque, one might’ve even said. 

Honestly really bad. I got my chem test back and you were right I should've studied more

I’m sorry to hear that, Noah. 

Just that was enough to make me tear up. Something about Nathan’s calm words and steady presence eased the tension in my shoulders. And calling me Noah–he didn’t have to do that, didn’t have to include it in his message to get his point across, but it was like he was reminding me that he believed me. I briefly closed my eyes, letting the moisture gather in my eyes without shame. Nathan understood me. Nathan was here for me. 

I was just trying to figure out which part of the truly terrible day to start with (the things Jason and his friends said at lunch? The comments I found on my Instagram page this morning? The way my old best friend, the person who was supposed to stand by me when no one else did, had looked at me from across the hall?) when I heard a knock on my door. Three knocks–the even rhythm and gentle force told me that it was my dad. I knew in my gut that this was a confrontation I wouldn't be able to avoid, so I quickly scribbled out g2g before swiping my palm across the mirror’s surface, smudging the words beyond recognition. 

“Yeah?” I called, capping my “red” Expo marker. Stop lying, Expo. It’s pink. 

I watched through the reflection as my dad opened the door and stepped inside, half shutting it behind him as he glanced around the room. 

“Hey there, kiddo,” he said, his eyes catching on the mirror behind me. When I glanced back, the green letters were still there, sitting somewhere behind the glass, though I knew he couldn’t see them. I had spent enough time trying to convince him with no results. 

“What do you want, Dad?” I said, not bothering to keep the tiredness from seeping into my voice. 

Dad sighed, tapping his fingers against his arms as he crossed them. It was an anxious tick, one I recognized as him wanting to be done with this conversation. 

“Why is your mirror pink?” he finally asked, ignoring my question. 

I shrugged. “I’ve been making notes on it.”

“We need to have a talk as a family.”

Ah, there it was. Damning words, ones that foretold a very difficult next half hour. 

Pushing myself to my feet, I tried to fold my emotions away into some corner of my body where the real world couldn't touch. I didn’t want to be vulnerable for the impending altercation, didn’t want any part of me exposed. I began to move past him to the stairs, but he grabbed my elbow before I could. “Try to be civil towards your mother,” he said. 

I scowled. “I’ll be civil if she is.” 

When I got to the kitchen, my mother and sister were already waiting, sitting in their respective seats. Mom’s face was stony, and her eyes latched onto me as soon as I entered. My sister, Lila, was focused on her phone, which she poked at with taloned hands. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Lila said dryly. I sneered at her. What an ass. 

Dad shot her a look before putting a hand on my waist, guiding me towards my chair. Sitting down in his own seat, he leaned forward, threading his fingers together and meeting each of our eyes in turn. 

“I think,” he said slowly, “that we are long overdue for a talk. We’ve been kind of disconnected as a family lately.” Lila and I looked at him with twin unamused expressions, but Mom nodded eagerly. 

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve both been insufferable lately, and it’s high time that we put an end to this. Lila, why the hell did we get another call from Mrs. Mohror today about your outfit?” 

Lila made a face, clicking the button to turn her phone off and slamming it down on the table with a decisive thud. “Um, because she’s a prude? It’s literally just a crop top, you can’t even see anything!” She gestured wildly at me. “And why are you getting on my case? At least I’m dressing like a girl and not some kind of–” she spluttered, searching for words, “–hoodlum!”

Easily distracted, Mom spun on me instead. “That’s its own problem! Chelsea, what is with you? You’re so beautiful, why do you insist on dressing like a boy?”

“Now girls,” Dad said, apparently newly aware of what he’d started.

“Let’s not–”

“For the last time, stop calling me that!” I snarled, feeling blood rise hotly to my face. “If nothing else, at least–”

“Girls–”

“YOU ARE NOT A BOY,” Mom thundered, and the kitchen sunk into silence. Across the room, I could hear the dishwasher gurgling. Outside, the neighbor’s lawn mower hummed to life. I stared at my mother with fire curdling in my chest, anger turning my hands to fists and humiliation making my throat tight. 

Mom put her head in her hands and let out a theatrically anguished sob. “What happened to this family? I have one kid who dresses like a slut and another who’s convinced she’s a man. You two are throwing away everything I’ve worked for. What did I do wrong?” 

Lila rolled her eyes, throwing her hands in the air before tossing herself back into her chair. “Here we go again. Why do you always have to make everything about you?” In this, we were in agreement. 

Mom’s head snapped up, and her eyes latched onto Lila. I used the brief interlude to get up and leave the room even as Dad called for me to stop. I had tried to be civil. I hadn’t even said anything. Now I was done. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, I thundered back up to my room, slamming the door shut behind me. In a strange moment of déjà vu, I could once again hear my mother yelling outside, but this time, it was accompanied by my sister’s shrill voice and my father’s panicked rambling as he tried to calm everybody down. 

Crossing the room, I collapsed onto the bench in front of the vanity. It felt like gravity was trying to drag me to the floor, and it was pulling at everything–my hair, teeth, bones. I picked up my “red” Expo marker again and ignored the sensation of sinking. 

I’m back, I wrote, then paused with the tip poised over the glass. What do I even say to accurately describe what just happened? 

Nathan responded first. 

I’m glad to hear that, the mirror said. Are you alright?

Not really I

There was a long pause while I tried to find the words, long enough that a ? started to appear. I watched it form, saw how it started with a delicate curl and ended with a confident strike. 

You first, I wrote instead, crossing out what I had already written. How was your day? Tell me something good that hapened

Another long pause. I could feel him weighing whether he should push me for more details or not. He apparently decided to leave me be, because a second later, more words started to rise to the mirror’s surface.

Alright, he began. I had a good day at work today. We were finally able to get the Huntington project approved, so we’ll be able to start the implementation phase within the next month. There was a bit of a rough patch during the cost analysis meeting, though. It seems like the board members might be the most challenging part of this project after all. 

I read with rapt attention, trying to absorb every word as if it were my own. Nathan had always been a bit cagey with the details, but from what I could understand, he had the kind of job that people like me dreamed of. Creativity, ingenuity, artistry–he never used those words, but I could tell from the way he talked how much he relied on them and how much he loved it in turn. The challenge of a problem unsolved, the brilliant people he was surrounded with, the satisfaction that blazed through him after a job well done–he loved it, and I was insanely jealous. I wanted that for myself, wanted it with every fiber of my being. Every atom in my body was pulled towards it with magnetic force, and I craved it desperately.

However, as much as I hated to admit it (and I really, really hated it), Mom was right; I probably wouldn’t get into a good college, especially not one that would let me do what Nathan did. So I did my best to commit each word to memory and tried to be satisfied with just that instead.

(Nathan, true to form, was extremely supportive of me to an almost insane degree. Even though he refused to tell me what his job was, he encouraged me to keep trying despite my struggles in school, and though I appreciated his faith in me, it hurt every time, like little bee stings in my chest.)

Nathan’s writing had slowed to a halt. He waited a respectful beat before cutting straight to the chase. 

Now tell me what happened. 

I had run out of time to stall. My own crooked writing joined Nathan’s curly lines, red scribbles under green script, and I told him everything. I told him about the cruel things Jason had whispered in my ear this morning and the hatred I found on my Instagram. I talked about the ice in my ex-best friend's eyes and the heavy 52 on my chemistry exam. As I kept going, I found that it got easier, that the words picked up momentum and got sloppier. The stress of the day, which had been a building, burning pressure, was finally starting to slough off of me and into the ink in the marker again, though it wasn’t completely gone. There was still the threat of being interrupted again for Family Feud: Round 2. Still, putting everything into words balanced something inside me, and knowing the words weren’t going straight into the void, that they were being read and consumed and understood, made me feel like this might someday be just another bad day instead of the end of the world. 

Nathan stayed the entire time and observed with minimal interruption, only stopping me to ask the occasional question. By the time I was done telling him about the school day, I had covered my mirror in writing three times over. Each time I erased it, more pink clung to the glass, and I managed to gather a decent amount of it onto my hands as well. 

Then dad wanted me to come downstairs so we could talk as a “family.” it got bad really quickly. Mom just cant keep her mouth shut.

I sighed, leaning back again for a moment to stretch my back before continuing.

Sometimes I think they're right that its all in my head. I was so sure that I knew who I was and that this is who I’m suposed to be. But maybe I am too young to know and I’m just wrong. I just hope that I haven’t screwed everything up for good. 

Here, I hesitated. There was something else I wanted to tell Nathan, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to put it into words; doing so would solidify my cowardice. It would prove my mother right.

I wrote it out anyway.

Why couldn’t I have just not said anything? It wouldve been so much easier if I had stayed quiet. I think I made a mistake.

There it was: the ugly truth. If I hadn’t said anything, my father and sister would still meet my eyes when talking to me. If I had stayed quiet, I might not be having so much social trouble at school. If I had remained her silent, obedient daughter, my mom and I would still be like we were. All of these losses were the direct results of my own dumb decisions. I had been so caught up in finally finding the words to describe myself that I didn’t think about what they would say to the people around me. Regret curled around my throat and squeezed. 

NO.

Through blurry eyes, I watched as Nathan underlined the word. Once, twice. Three times.

Noah, this is not your fault. You are not to blame for the way your family has reacted. I understand your doubt–I’ve been there, believe me, but you living your life the way you want to isn’t some slight against the world. It’s you trying to be the most honest version of yourself. 

Tears were freely dripping down my face at that point. I tried to wipe them away without smearing pink all over my face, but I don’t think I managed. Closing my eyes, I sat back and let out a long breath, repeating Nathan’s words in my head. Not my fault. Not my fault. He wasn’t done yet, though. 

And who knows. Maybe someday you’ll change your mind and figure out that this isn’t who you are, but that’s not wrong either. People are allowed to change–that’s just growth. You don’t have to know exactly who you are today. 

Please don’t doubt yourself, Noah. I know this is hard. It’s unimaginably difficult, and you’ve been through a lot, but you’ve done such a great job and come so far. I am so proud of you. 

This is what I needed, someone to tell me that I wasn’t crazy and that it isn’t wrong to want to be understood. A person who understood the hurt without being dismissive and could see the effort it took to stay composed. Once again, I clung to the words and tried to bury them in my chest, far down enough that they would never shake free.

I spent a long moment collecting myself, stilled my trembling hands, then leaned forward and wrote, Thank you. For everything.

Kind words. A steady presence. Green letters that curled at the ends. 

Of course. 

—————————————

Hours later, I sigh and put down my green Expo marker. My wife looks up at me from where she’s sprawled across the bed on the far side of the room.

“Noah, are you done yet? I think I want tacos tonight for dinner. The beef ones, not the chicken ones.”

I laugh a little. “Yeah, sorry about the wait. The kid had a bad day."

She stands and crosses the room, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and putting her head on top of mine as she reads what I’ve written on the mirror. I look at her in the reflection, watch her eyes as they flicker back and forth. She is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

“You’re really good at saying the right thing,” she says when she’s done.

I hum noncommittally. “Not really, but I try.”

The truth is that the younger version of myself is not always the easiest to talk to. It can be hard to reach him under the layers of hurt and rage and guilt and cling to him, and sometimes the idea of reliving all the old memories makes me want to walk away, even though I never would. These conversations are so important to me—when talking to Nathan, it was like I was finally tethered after an eternity spent floating, and I would never give that up. 

My wife smiles at me. 

“Trust me. You did great.”