The Woman and the Mirror

Sameena looked into the mirror as she applied her usual nude lipstick—same shade for the past five years. Her black blazer was neatly pressed, her heels polished, and her laptop bag zipped with clockwork precision. Everything in her life had a schedule. Nothing ever slipped.

Except joy.

She didn’t notice that until this morning.

“Mom,” Muskaan asked while sitting at the edge of the bed, brushing her doll’s hair, “why don’t you ever laugh?”

Sameena’s hand froze mid-air. The lipstick trembled in her fingers.

“Hmm?” she tried to deflect, but her voice cracked slightly.

Muskaan didn’t look up. “Everyone’s mom laughs. Mine doesn’t.”

The sentence hit like a slow slap—soft, but unforgettable. Sameena couldn’t bring herself to answer. Instead, she mumbled something about being late and disappeared into her daily routine.

---

The office was as usual—a blur of polite nods, boardrooms, cappuccinos, and KPI graphs. People respected Sameena. Admired her. Called her “on top of things.” Her team often said she made chaos look like art.

But today, something felt... off.

She smiled during the 10:30 a.m. stand-up, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She laughed at her junior’s joke, but it sounded foreign even to her own ears. That simple question — “Why don’t you ever laugh?” — echoed louder than the voices around her.

---

On her lunch break, she went to the restroom and locked herself in a stall—not to cry, but to think.

When did she stop laughing?

Was it during her divorce? Maybe before that, when her father told her that ambition was only beautiful until it threatened a man? She remembered being told once, “Men don’t marry women who challenge them. They marry comfort.”

Sameena had chosen to be uncomfortable — with a career, with long hours, with earning more than her ex-husband. And then… he left.

She gave up her dream of writing stories. What once brought her joy became impractical. Bills had to be paid. Stability came first.

She had built a life made of steel, but somewhere along the line, she had locked herself inside it. And the world applauded her for it.

---

That night, after Muskaan had gone to bed, Sameena stood again in front of her mirror. The makeup was gone. The blazer hung on the chair. The woman staring back at her looked… tired.

Not in a tragic way.

In a forgotten way.

She whispered to herself, “When did I become this?”

But the mirror had no answers. Only a reflection.

She walked to her nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out an old leather notebook. Her name was written on the cover in faded blue ink. Inside were stories she’d written years ago—fiction, feelings, fragments of dreams.

One page read:

> “One day, I will write something that makes even the strongest woman cry — and not because she’s sad, but because she feels seen.”

Sameena closed the notebook gently. Her fingers lingered on the cover a second longer.

She sat down and started writing again. Slowly. Hesitantly. It wasn’t a story. Not yet. It was just… thoughts. Her thoughts. Honest ones.

---

The next morning, Muskaan found her mom humming in the kitchen. No blazer. Just a simple dress and an apron slightly covered in flour. The smell of cardamom and ghee hung in the air — pancakes from scratch.

“You’re smiling,” Muskaan said in surprise.

Sameena laughed. Not loudly, but honestly.

“Maybe I just forgot how,” she replied.

Then she served breakfast—and beside the plate, she placed a page from her notebook. Muskaan picked it up curiously. It had just one line:

> “You’re the reason I’m finding my way back to me.”

---

🌀 Sometimes, the strongest women aren’t the ones who keep going. They’re the ones who finally pause and ask themselves: “Am I still in here?”