and we’ll see.”
He hasn’t asked yet.
But I have a feeling he’s measuring twice.
On my thirty-ninth birthday, Edward gave me a gift.
It was a small box. Wrapped in brown paper. Tied with a white ribbon.
“I’ve been working on it for a while,” he said. “Don’t laugh.”
I opened it.
It was a hand mirror. Small. Round. Set in a frame made of light-colored maple, so smooth it felt like silk. On the back, carved in neat letters, were three words.
LOOK AGAIN. I DO.
I turned it over and looked into it.
A thirty-nine-year-old woman looked back at me. There were lines around her eyes. There was gray at her temples that she’d stopped coloring. Her face was a little fuller than it used to be.
She was smiling.
I hadn’t seen her in a very long time.
Ava found the mirror on my nightstand a
