Every Mirror in This House Lies Differently

The first time I noticed something wrong with the mirrors was the day after my mother’s funeral.

I was brushing my teeth in the upstairs bathroom, the one she always kept too clean, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. Not her ghost or some shadowy presence — no, it was her, alive and vibrant, humming some old song while brushing her hair, just like she did every night.

But when I turned around, the room was empty. The mirror held only me.

At first, I blamed grief. Of course I did. They say the mind plays tricks when it’s mourning. That we hear things. See things. Feel things that aren’t there. So I didn’t mention it. Not to my brother. Not to my wife. Not even to myself, not really.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Each mirror in the house began reflecting not just me, but a version of me that didn’t feel entirely… current.

In the mirror by the front door, I always look younger. Thinner. My eyes carry less weight. That mirror lies kindly. It shows the version of me I wish I still was — the one who hadn’t made so many mistakes, hadn’t said so many things he couldn’t take back.

The full-length mirror in the hallway, on the other hand, is cruel. It shows me older. Hollowed out. My hair grayer, my back a little more bent, like time had accelerated in that one reflection. I stared at it too long once and had to sit down. I looked… tired in a way I hadn’t felt until I saw it.

The mirror in my childhood bedroom — that one is the worst. It doesn’t show me at all. Just the room. Empty. A still-life of loneliness. No matter how close I stand, no matter how much I wave or shout or cry — it refuses to reflect me.

I tried removing it once. Took it off the wall and flipped it around, but the moment I entered the room again, it was back. Hanging neatly, slightly crooked, just like it always had been. I stopped going in after that.

I asked my brother once, casually, if he’d ever noticed anything weird about the mirrors. He looked at me like I’d grown another head.

“They’re mirrors, Elijah,” he said, shoveling cereal into his mouth. “They reflect stuff. That’s their whole thing.”

I didn’t push it.

It’s not that I’m losing my mind. At least, I don’t think I am. I go to work. I pay the bills. I still make half-decent coffee. But this house—this house is starting to feel like it’s observing me, not the other way around.

One night, I stared into the bathroom mirror again, the same one that first betrayed me. I was exhausted, unable to sleep, so I leaned into the glass and whispered, “What do you want from me?”

The reflection didn’t answer. But the version of me in the mirror — he didn’t move in sync. My head tilted. His didn’t. I blinked. He smiled.

And then — he mouthed something.

I couldn’t hear the words, but I knew them.

“Tell the truth.”

The thing about living in a house where mirrors lie is that you start wondering what truth even is.

Was I always like this? Worn down, restless, cold?

Had I changed, or had I finally been reflected accurately?

I started journaling. Not about the mirrors, but about me. About Mom. About the way I treated people. About the fight I had with my brother before she died, the one we pretended never happened. About how I stopped calling my daughter after the divorce — not because I didn’t love her, but because I didn’t know how to explain who I’d become.

Last night, I walked past the hallway mirror again. I usually avoid it. But something made me stop.

This time, I didn’t look older. Or younger. Or better or worse.

I just looked like… me. Just Elijah. Nothing more. Nothing less.

In that moment, I understood something:

The mirrors aren’t lying. They’re just showing me things I refuse to see.

Every reflection is a version of myself — past, future, possible, rejected, avoided.

And the one that doesn’t show me at all?

Maybe it’s not broken.

Maybe it’s waiting for the version of me I haven’t become yet.

The one who finally tells the truth.

To others.

To himself.

To the mirror.

One follow is all it takes — miss it now, and you may never find me again.