Reflections of Strength
Simon, what do you think youre doing? My own voice came out shrill, shaky, and almost foreign to my ears, echoing around the busy, warmly lit London bar.
He didnt turn round immediately. Just stood there at the counter, hand resting on the waist of that womantall, short-cropped hair, leather jacket, confident. She leaned in, murmuring something into his ear, and he grinned. That grinId not seen it for months.
Simon! I called, louder this time.
He turned then, that familiar look of surprise flickering into annoyance, as though Id just interrupted something life-changing.
Mary, what are you doing here?
What do you mean, what? You told me half past eight. I collected your suit from the tailor, thought Id see you
The woman beside him moved away but not with discomfort, with curiosity. She looked me up and down, inspecting my scuffed handbag, my old sheepskin coat, the grey roots in my hair Id been meaning to dye for weeks.
Emma, this is mymy wife, Simon muttered, the last word coming out apologetic. Mary, can we not do this here?
Not here? Where, then? You come home at two in the morning, vanish before dawn, never pick up the phone
Emma smirkednot mocking, more sympathetic. That was somehow worse, crueler.
Simon, maybe you two should talk, she murmured. Ill wait.
No, stay, Simon replied, holding her hand in plain sight. Mary, I thought youd understood. I told you last Thursday. Me and Emma
You were drunk! I thought you were talking nonsense.
I was sober. I said exactly what I meant.
I remembered that night. Hed come home late, I was reheating dinner. He muttered about being tired, about life passing him by, wantingsomething. I hadnt bothered listening too closely. I thought: just the usual moans. Middle-aged man stuff. Let it pass.
Twenty-eight years, Simon. Twenty-eight.
Thats why, he sighed. Thats exactly why I want to live the rest differently.
Emma placed her hand firmly on his shoulderpossessive, assured, a slight glinting bracelet on her wrist, nails neatly clipped and unpainted. Something inside me twisted sharply.
Go home, Mary, Simon said, defeated, weary. Ill come back tomorrow. Well talk properly.
No.
I hadnt expected that, not from myself. Sudden and brash, I stepped forward, clumsily shoved Emma by the shoulder, the way only an angry, desperate woman can.
Who do you think you are? You tart!
Everything happened so quickly. Emma caught my arm, twisted me round, and pressed me against the barfirm, not painful, but undeniably strong. My body refused to respond. Something sharp flared in my shoulder.
Let her go, Simon said quietly.
Emma released me. I stumbled back, rubbing my wrist. The whole room watchedthe barman, a couple of lads at a table, a waitress pausing with her tray. They looked at mea pathetic middle-aged woman in a tired old coat, unable even to throw a proper punch.
Sorry, Emma said, evenly. Reflex. Didnt mean to.
I turned and walked briskly out, tripping over my own feet, stifling sobs until the cold December air hit me and the bars door swung closed behind. I slid down the side wall, letting tears run.
Snow drifted, thick and lazy, against the twinkling Christmas lights in the window. Londoners hurried past, muffled up in scarves. Nobody looked at the crying woman on the pavement. In London, people dont stare.
It took ages to get hometube, then bus, then those familiar streets by foot. I left the light off, shrugged off my coat in the hall, climbed into bed in my clothes.
Simon never came. Not that night, nor the next. He rang, briefly on the third day, businesslikehed collect his things at the weekend, the flat would remain mine, hed transfer some money. Like a contract, not a goodbye.
I nodded to the empty room, put the phone down, lay back on the bed. After a week, then another, I got up only because my old friend Susan kept ringing.
Mary, come on, enough is enough. Come outside, lets walk.
Dont want to.
Have you eaten today?
I have.
A lie. I drank tea with stale biscuits, sometimes reheated tinned soup. Even the thought of proper food churned my stomach.
I spent hours online, searchingEmmas profiles, rows of confident selfies: at the gym, up a mountain, astride a motorbike. Snappy captions: Training, Weekend, A new challenge. One shot, shes on a boxing ring, gloves poised, and the comments are gushing.
I scrolled back for flawssome hint of weakness. There was none.
One eveningin the dull, early-dark of southern Englands winterI saw Emmas post about her job: womens self-defence and martial arts classes. In one, she stood next to a poster: Phoenix Martial Arts Centre. Womens Beginners.
I stared at that image, then put my phone down and gazed at my own reflectiona sagging face, dull hair, bags beneath my eyes. Fifty-eight years old. A body that had been simply for hauling groceries, scrubbing dishes, ironing shirts. I couldnt remember the last time I thought of it as minenot sick or aching, not what shoes pinched, not aches to discuss with the GP, but as something alive, vital.
Emma hadnt won because she was younger or prettier. She won because she was physically strong, capablea simple reflex, stopping me as easily as flicking away a fly. Reflex, shed said.
A body trained to defend itself, not afraid.
I stood and stared from the window into the lamp-lit courtyard below. Children tore about on scooters, mothers calling after them.
Life simply carried on.
Mine ended that night, in the barthe Mary who waited for her husband, who dreamed of grandchildren and retirement adventures. It dissolved in a burst of humiliation.
So what now?
No idea, except that lying in bed wasnt an option.
Next morning, I got up earlyfirst time in weeks. Made scrambled eggs, brewed coffee, sat at the computer.
Beginner fitness classes London.
Endless resultsyoga, pilates, aqua-aerobics, dance. Too gentle. I wanted something real, something to teach me never to feel so helpless again.
I typed: Womens self-defence London.
Within the hour, Id listed five gyms in the Southfields and Wimbledon areas. One was just twenty minutes walk: Vitality.
Description: Fitness, boxing, functional training. Beginners welcome. All ages.
All ages. Brilliant.
It took ages to dial the number, but eventually:
Vitality Gym, how can I help? Bright, female voice.
Hello, Id like to inquire about beginners classes. Please.
Of course! What interests you? Fitness, boxing, stretching?
Boxing. Even I was surprised at the word.
Perfect. We have a womens group Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven. Coach Irene. Just turn up for a free trial.
Will are the others all young?
A pause.
All ages. Some in their forties, fifties. Dont worry. Irenes in her fifties herselfshe gets it.
Ill come Thursday.
My hands shook when I hung upnerves or excitement, I couldnt say.
On Saturday Simon came for his boxes, silent, methodical, packing up his suits and books. I stared out the window, back turned.
Ill send you money, he said, shutting the last box. Ring me if you need anything.
I wont.
Mary
Just go.
He left. The door closed lightly. The flat felt bigger, emptier.
Good or bad, I didnt know.
On Thursday I dug out baggy joggers from an old drawer, a faded T-shirt, a jacket. Collected a water bottle, set off early.
The gym was a semi-basement in a tatty Edwardian blocka plain sign, no flashy branding. Inside, it smelled of sweat and mats. A thirty-something at the desk with a tablet greeted me.
Evening. You here for boxing?
Yes. Mary, I phoned earlier.
Go on in, changing rooms through there. Irenell be along.
The changing room: three women, two youngish, one older, all quietly getting changed. I wriggled into my stretched-out top, suddenly foolish. Why had I come? What the hell was I doing?
First time? asked the older woman, lacing her trainers.
Yes.
Dont fret, love. Irenes great. Wont run you ragged. Start slow.
I nodded, mute.
The main room had ten or so women, various ages, boxing gloves, bags. Some warming up, some chatting.
Irene strode in shortly after. Short, solid, cropped hair, a scar through her eyebrow. Easily into her fifties.
Alright, everyone. Any first-timers?
I tentatively put my hand up.
Name?
Mary.
Irene. Good to meet you. Stand to the side to watch, then join in. Lets warm up, ladies.
The first half-hour was hell. My limbs ignored me, arms heavy, legs all wrong. Irene showed me how to punch the bag; I missed three times in a row. Embarrassment fizzed behind my eyes.
No worries, Irene called over, patient. Everyone starts somewhere. Try again.
I did. My fist hit, awkward but real.
Good. Again.
I punched, slower, then faster. The bag swung. Sweat stung. My breath came hard and shallow.
Alright, have a breather.
I sank onto a bench, heart hammering, body shaky. But something else stirreda strange spark. Anger? Thrill?
Life.
Getting home was a trial. My muscles screamed. In the shower, I eyed my red knuckles, the half-healed bruise on my wrist from the bar incident.
It was almost gone.
Back again? Irene asked, next session.
Yes, I replied. Ill be back.
And I was. Tuesday, Thursday, every week, then every week that followed for months.
Slowly, my body changed. The morning stiffness faded; climbing five flights no longer left me winded. My belly shrank, arms grew firmer.
But the biggest shift was inside.
I stopped thinking about Simonat least in that raw, self-pitying way. If he came to mind, it was distantly, as someone whod been, whod gonelike the end of a season, the flicker of film credits.
Susan saw the change.
You look different, she said over coffee one morning. Slimmer, sure, but something else.
I joined a gym.
You? Gym?
Me.
She laughed, then sobered. Sorry. I just never thought you wouldyou always said sport, not your thing.
I said a lot of things.
Quiet. She stirred her tea, eyes low.
Has Simon rung?
No.
They say hes moved in withEmma.
I know.
And youre alright with that?
I considered. Was I? Not entirely. There was still pain, the odd pang, the nightmare of waking up alone, lost in my own bed. But the ache had dulled, like a healing bruise.
Not alright, I admitted. But Im living.
Spring came suddenly. Snow vanished, sun and rain filled London. I started walking to the gymforty minutes each way. Irene approved.
Walkings great. Easy on the knees. Cardio that doesnt break you.
One March class, Irene caught me after.
Youve come on a lot, Mary. Fancy a bit of sparring?
What?
Just light, in headguard. The real things different from a baglets your body learn properly.
I was terrified but nodded.
My first opponent was Olga, in her fifties, two years seniority. She boxed neatly, calmly, landing a couple on my side and shoulder. I flinched, clumsy. Then, suddenly, I blocked her, countered, made a hit.
Olga laughed, delighted.
Nice one!
Afterwards, helmet off, my hands tremblednot with fear, but exhilaration. Id done it. My body replied the way I wanted.
Good, for your first go, Irene said, sitting beside me. Were you scared?
Yes.
Everyone is. You didnt stop, though.
I looked at her.
Irene, can I askwhy do you do all this? Teaching, boxing?
She shrugged. Long story short, my husband hit me. For years. Till I learned to hit back. Left him, joined the gym. Decided Id help women learn faster than I did.
I was silent.
Youve got your own story, havent you? she asked softly.
Yes. Husband didnt hit me though. He justleft.
That hurts too.
It does, I agreed. But its fading.
She nodded, clapped me on the shoulder.
It fades. Doesnt vanish, but it fades.
In April, for the first time in years, I went to a hairdresserhad it cut, dyed. Bought myself a new coat, some jeans, some trainersnot expensive, but mine.
Simon transferred money as hed promised. I didnt spend itI saved. For what, I didnt know yet.
One evening after gym, I stopped at the shopping centre near home. I took the escalator up. There she wasEmmabrowsing jackets alone, looking much the same as back then, self-assured.
My heart leapt; the old pain and fear threatened to engulf me. For once, I did not turn away.
I marched forward.
Emma noticed, recognized me. Her face briefly wary.
Mary?
Hello.
We faced each other. She looked away, then back.
How are you? she asked quietly.
Im fine.
Youyou look different. Slimmer.
I go to the gym.
She nodded.
Thats good.
The silence between us stretched awkwardly. I studied her facethe woman who, months ago, had been my nemesis. Now just tired, older, a bit drawn.
Hows Simon? I blurted.
Emma almost smiled.
Simonoh, we split up two weeks ago.
What?
It didnt work out. He wanted medifferent, I suppose. Didnt matter. It didnt work out.
No feeling bubbled up, not even a twinge of satisfaction or revenge. Just quiet emptiness.
Im sorry, she said. For that night, for everything.
No need, I replied.
There is. I didnt want to hurt anyone. It was justgood with him, for a while. But then, it wasnt.
I really looked at her.
Youre a self-defence coach, arent you?
She blinked, bemused.
Yes. How did you
I looked you up, after. I was trying to understand you. I realized it wasnt about youit was about me. I didnt lose Simon to you. I lost myself a long time ago.
Emma gazed at me, silent, then nodded.
Youre wise. Wiser than me.
No, just older.
We both smiled, awkward but genuine.
I should go, Emma said. Good luck, Mary.
You too.
She took the escalator down. I walked the other way, back out into the bright, blooming May air. Children yelled, greenery filled the gardens. I took my time, looked around, let the breeze have its way.
My phone buzzed. Susan.
Hows things? Not seen you in ages. Fancy catching up?
I typed, smiling, Not tonight, got the gym. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow it is!
I pocketed my mobile, rounded the corner to my block, and glanced up at my fifth-floor windowmy light was still on. Id left it blazing.
Simon used to moan, Mary, how many times, turn those lights off! Didnt matter now. My flat. My bill. My rules.
My life.
Old Mr. Wilkes, my neighbour, sat on the bench under the sycamores, scattering crumbs for sparrows.
Evenin, Mrs. James, he called.
Evening, Mr. Wilkes.
Youre back late.
From training.
Good for you. In my day, I just lay on the sofa at your ageand here you are, running about.
I grinned.
Im trying.
Five flights of stairs, no gasping for breath. Shower, then a mug of tea by the window, looking over the rooftops and city lights.
I used to think, if Simon left, Id simply ceasefade into nothing.
But I hadnt. Id survived.
Life marched ondifferent, harder, lonelier. But my own.
My phone buzzed: unrecognized number. I frowned, picked up.
Hello?
Mary James? Its Irene, from Vitality.
Yes, hello.
Ive got a proposition. I need an assistant for the morning classesnot a coach, just help with form, confidence, that sort of thing. Its not much money, but good experience. Interested?
Shock and doubt squirmed. Me, helping others? Could I?
Im not sure I could manage
You can, Irene replied firmly. You started from scratch, you know every fear and mistaketheyll relate. Thats exactly what they need.
Ill think about it.
Dont leave it too longthe group starts in a fortnight.
She hung up. I stared at my now-stronger hands, knobbly and callused.
Hands that could defend themselves.
Maybe I could help others, too.
At the next session, I told Irene, Ill give it a try.
She grinned. Great. Monday, Ill get you started.
Saturday saw my first group. Five womentwo young, a middle-aged, two older. One of them, Joan, looked absolutely petrified, huddled in her baggy joggers.
I went over while Irene went through the basics.
Morning. Im Mary, assistant coach.
Joan, she muttered, not meeting my gaze.
Your first time?
Yes. My daughter convinced me. Says I need to get moving.
I understand. Its tough, starting out.
Terrifying. Im scared Ill make a fool of myself.
I saw my past self in hershaky, lost, battered.
Nobody will laugh, I said gently. We all start somewhere. We all made it through. So will you.
She looked upreal hope flickered.
Really?
Really.
After class, Joan came over as I was collecting mats.
Thank youfor the encouragement.
Youre welcome.
You seem so together, so strong. Have you always done all this?
I let out a laugh.
No. I started six months ago. Just as wobbly and scared as you.
Her jaw dropped.
Really? But why? What happened?
I thought back. My husband left, my life collapsed but that was only the tip. It started years earlier, when I let myself dissolve into someone else, forgetting who I was.
I lost myself, I answered quietly. Now Im trying to find me again.
Found her?
I looked out at the sunlight and people rushing about.
Little by little.
Joan nodded.
I want that, too.
Youll find her. The trick is: dont quit.
That night, sifting through old photographs, I found our wedding albumyoung faces, lace and flowers, Simon clutching my hand. Twenty-eight years ago. I looked without tears, not sentimental, curiouslike someone elses life.
Now there was just me. Fifty-eight, weary, alone, strong.
The phone rang: Simon.
Unexpected; hed only been sending money for months now.
Hello?
Hi, Mary. How are things?
Fine. Whats up?
Nothing, justwanted a chat. We havent spoken.
A sigh, then, Maybe we could meet? Talk things over?
About what?
Everything. Us. What happened. Maybe divorce was a mistake
His voice was familiar, almost nostalgic, like a tune I once liked but now heard as background static.
Simon, I dont want to meet.
But why? I realise I made a mistake. It didnt work out with Emma. Lately Ive been thinking about you, about everything. Maybe we could pick up where we left off?
The old me wouldve wept, or clung to hope. Instead, only weariness.
No, Simon. We cant.
Why not?
Because Im different now. I dont want that life back.
What life? We were happy!
Maybe you were. I dont know if I was. I was justthere. Keeping your show on the road.
Thats unfair, Mary
Maybe. But its my truth.
A silence.
Do you hate me?
No. Not at all. I just dont love you anymore. You were part of my life. But that parts over.
So thats it?
Yes, Simon. Thats it.
I hung up, gently closed the album, put it away in the highest cupboarda memory, not my anchor.
June. I drove solo to our old family cottage near Oxford, inherited from Simons parents. Hed said I could use it after our split.
I hadnt dared return for two yearsthe memories too heavy.
Now, I went anyway.
The place was wildgrass waist-high, garden shed caving in, whole place listing and musty. Windows open, floors scrubbed, relics binned.
Two days graftlawn, fence painting, mending the step. My body ached but in the best way: alive.
That second sunset, I drank tea on the steps, heard thrushes and a distant barking dog. Silence, peaceloneliness without pain.
Well I never, came a voice over the hedge.
Old Mr. Evans, the neighbour, peered through. Retired, here all year.
Hello, Mary.
Hello, Mr. Evans. Its been a while.
Here by yourself?
Just me.
Wheres Simon?
Were divorced.
He shook his head.
Ah, modern world. So many years andjust like that, done.
It happens.
He nodded. Stay strong, love. Lifes hardbeen on my own fifteen years since my wife. Still cozy enough.
You get used to it?
To being alone? Amused snort. Never quite. But you adapt. You find upsides.
Like what?
Freedom, he said simply. You get to do what you want, when you want. Thats a sort of happiness.
I thought about that.
Maybe it is.
It is. Anyway, shout if you need anything. Dont be a stranger.
He left. I finished my tea and was in bed before dusk.
I slept dreamlessly for the first time in months.
Morningbirds, cold water on my face, a stretch on wet grass, breakfast on the steps.
Bright, warm, a perfect walking day. I packed up, headed for the woods. Time wandered by as I walked the old paths, picking wild strawberries, heart and mind calm.
What a long year it had beenwrenching, rebuilding, coming back to myself after decades of being somebodys wife. Once, Id loved learning, adventure, ambitiontill Id married Simon and my world shrank to one bright pinprick: be a good wife.
Id triedbut in doing so, lost Mary.
So, what now? I asked aloud, stopping in a patch of sunlight.
No answer, only the rustle of wind.
I sat on a log, thumbed my mobile, re-reading an old chat with Susan: Sometimes I wonder if Ive missed life, if Ive done nothing that matters.
She replied: Mary, dont be daft. Youre a brilliant wife and homemaker. That matters, too.
Back then, that had soothed me. Now it felt like not enough. It was vital to be kind to othersbut what about myself?
The mobile buzzeda text from Irene:
Hows the break? Joan asks after youmisses your tips. When are you back?
I beamed and replied: Lots of fresh air. Back next week, I miss the gym!
Packed up. Strolled home.
A couple of weeks after my return, I bumped into Emma in the supermarket.
She was at the aisle ahead of me, hands full, card tapping against the reader. She caught my eye.
Seems we keep meeting.
So it seems.
Outside, we stood by the trolleys.
How are you? she asked.
Good. You?
Im alright. Working, teaching. Life carries on.
I nodded.
Simon rang memonth or so back. Wanted to get together again.
Emma wrinkled her brow.
Really? What did you say?
I said no.
Good. Hes alright, buthe relies on people. First you, then me, probably someone new by now.
Not my business any longer.
No, it’s not.
We stood in companionable silence.
Emma checked her watch.
Ive got a class soon. Need to run.
Go on, then.
She took a couple of steps, paused.
Maryyouve done brilliantly. Not everyone bounces back. I saw you, that night in the bar. You were broken. But nowtotally different. Strong.
I studied her.
I hated you then.
She nodded. I know.
Now Im almost grateful.
A raised eyebrow.
Why?
You blew up my fairy tale. I needed that. Id have gone on sleepwalking until the end otherwise.
Emmas smile was brief but genuine.
Welltheres something, then. Though it wasnt on purpose.
I know. You just lived your life. I ought to do the same.
We parted. I watched her go, not with malice or envyjust acceptance.
Then I headed home, past playgrounds and terraces, past bustling cafés and laughter.
My lifemoving forward.
Autumn slipped in gently. Leaves yellowed, the air sharpened. I kept up at the gym, helping Irenes classes. Joan lost weight, grew confidentthanked me every time.
You saved me, shed say.
No, I replied. You saved yourself. I just stood by you.
That October, Irene suggested I take a coaching course.
Youre a natural. People trust and listen to you. Why not make it official?
I hesitatedcourses cost time and money. But finally agreed.
Three months, hard study, practicals, tests. I passed.
Come Januaryprecisely a year since that night in the barI received my certificate.
Mary Jane James. Fitness and Basic Boxing Instructor.
Irene hugged me.
Im proud of you.
Thank you for everything.
You did this. No one else.
That night, I sat cradling my certificate. A year ago, Id been no onea discarded wife, empty. Now I helped women reclaim their lives, just as Id reclaimed mine.
Susan rang.
Home tonight, Mary?
Yes.
Im coming over. To celebrate!
What?
Your new certificate! Irene told me. Im so proud!
She showed up with cake and fizzy wine. We sat in my little kitchen, talking for hours.
Sometimes when I look at you, I barely recognize you, Susan mused. Yourewhole again. Like you found something important.
I did.
What?
Myself.
She nodded.
And Simon, forgotten?
Not forgotten. But Ive let him go. Theres a difference.
Do you miss him?
I pondered. Sometimes in the night, sure, Id think of his voice, his scent, our past routines. But it was a gentle sadnessnot pain.
Sometimes. Not him, exactlyjust what was. Being young. But I dont want to go back.
Quite right, Susan lifted her glass. To you. To your new life.
To a new life.
We clinked glasses. I looked out at the winter city, snowflakes swirling, distant lights twinkling.
Somewhere Simon was getting on. Somewhere, Emma taught and searched for her own way.
And here I wasnearly sixty, on my own, but free. And strong.
And that was enough.
A week later, after a morning class, I sat in the park outside the gym with steaming coffee, watching the world. Joggers huffed past, dogs chased sticks, a few brats bombed about on scooters.
An elderly lady settled beside me, stick in hand, fur coat drawn tight.
Mind if I sit?
Of course not.
We sat in companionable silence.
My legs are done in. Its a hike home from here.
Take your time.
She eyed me. You from round here?
Aye.
Im up visiting my daughterminding the granddaughter all week. Tough at my age, but someone’s got to. Daughters on her own, husband left not long ago.
I nodded. I understand.
Happened to you?
Yes. Last year.
She shook her head.
Ah, men. All the same. My girls convinced her worlds finished. I tell her: no its not, you daft thing! Lifes not overjust turned a page. But she wont hear a word.
I stayed quiet. Then, Did you lose your husband too?
An amused huff. He died. Thirty years now. I was just forty. Thought my time was up. But it wasnt. I brought up the kids, kept working, now minding grandbabies. Life goes on. Long as you breathe, it goes on.
Thats right.
She nodded, levering herself up. The trick is, dont give up. Dont lie down and fade away. If you do, thats how you miss life altogether.
I smiled. Thats wisdom.
Not wisdom, lovejust living. With a wave, she shuffled off.
I finished my coffee, headed homepast the park, playground, corner shop.
The phone rang. Irene.
Where are you, Mary?
On my way home.
Good. Listen, I had a lady ring in. Wants to try the gym, but shes terrified. Shes fifty-five, reckons its too late. I said youd talk to her. Can you?
I stopped, watching a clear blue winter sky.
Of course. Send me her number.
Thanksyoure the best.
No, I just understand.
She sent it overI rang.
Hello? the hesitant voice of a woman.
Good morning, its Mary, from the Vitality gym. You rang about classes?
YesI I want to join, butIm not sure I can manage it. Ive never done fitness. And my age
How old are you?
Fifty-five.
Im fifty-nine. Started a year ago. From scratch.
Silence.
Really?
Really. And you know what? Its the best thing I ever did. Not because I got fitter or stronger. But because I found myself.
Found yourself?
Yes. The self I lost in the shuffle. Try it. Just once. If its not for you, thats that. But try.
Im scared.
So was I. Everyone is the first time. But youll never regret trying.
She paused, then, Alright. Thursday? Could I?
Ill be waiting. See you then.
I hung up, smiling and light, and walked the rest of the way home.
Lunch, then a book by the windowreading so long I forgot time.
Later, in the hallway mirror, I studied my face. Still tired, wrinkles deep, streaks of grey. But my eyes were bright, alive.
Myself, real and present.
Last year, I thought Id reached the enduseless, unwanted, merely hanging on.
But the end didnt come. The story just changed. It got tougher, lonelier, but became mine.
And that wasnt the end.
It was only the beginning.
Mary, I told my reflection softly. Well done. You made it through.
And my reflection smiled right back.
