When I glance into the mirror, my mother’s likeness greets me: the defined jawline, deep-set eyes, high forehead, and gently sloping nose. She has been gone for 14 years, and seeing her face in my own is a blend of haunting and comforting—a spectral reunion of sorts. Growing up, I didn’t think I resembled her much, but now, at 41, as youthfulness fades and the years etch their marks, her features have resurfaced in me.
My new, thick brown tortoiseshell glasses only amplify this resemblance. My mother always had her signature specs. For a short stint in her 40s—coinciding with an ill-fated foray into braces (I won’t delve into that)—she experimented with contact lenses, but ultimately returned to glasses, which suited her perfectly. Without them, she seemed almost bare, her eyes a tad too large and her nose slightly elongated. I rarely saw her without her glasses; she was so nearsighted that she put them on the moment she woke and only took them off at bedtime. Swimming? Those glasses were right there with her, bobbing above the waves as she elegantly glided through the water with her delicate breaststroke and her curly red hair pinned up.
She always picked stylish pairs. My father would groan at the prices she paid. “They’re the one thing you wear all the time,” she’d remind me, “and right in the center of your face!” Her work in fashion took her to Europe multiple times a year, and she’d return home with unique frames no one else stateside owned, which thrilled her. The styles varied wildly: chunky to slim, square to round, retro to contemporary. As a child, it took me days to adjust to her new selections. When she passed away suddenly from cancer at 56, I remember a young resident handing my brother and me her glasses in a plastic bag, alongside unfinished medications and her bedside lip gloss. Seeing those brown oval glasses, so new and barely worn, sent me into tears right there in the hospital lobby.
I was born when she was 30 and hold onto memories of her most vividly from her 40s, around my current age. To me, she was nothing short of enchanting, but I wonder what she saw in her compact mirror. Her red locks were turning gray, and fine lines began to etch her once-smooth complexion. Did she see a faded version of herself? Did she ponder where the years had vanished? “When people say you look tired, Daisy, what they really mean is you look old,” she once said while applying powder.
I’d watch her each morning as she prepped for work, mesmerized by her routine: moisturizing, concealing, plucking. I took in every detail—her long fingers, sharp collarbone, and straight teeth. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said one day, catching my gaze. “I used to look at my mother the same way, always thinking how old and ugly she was, and I couldn’t imagine becoming that.” I wanted to argue with her, but the words never left my mouth.
As I navigate life without her, memories I thought I had lost come rushing back. I recall how she curled her lashes to avoid smudging her glasses and smoothed her forehead with her fingers to erase the lines between her brows. I find myself mimicking these habits as my own features begin to reflect hers. I wear my new glasses on hectic days to conceal the dark circles under my eyes, realizing now that she likely did the same. It dawns on me that perhaps that’s why people preferred her with glasses.
When my children were born—children she never got to meet—I searched their faces for traces of her. Did Sam inherit her nose? What about Oliver and his hair? And Ellie, named in her honor, already sports stylish purple frames at age 8. I see bits of her in all of them, but when I peer into the mirror, I realize she lives on most vividly in me—not just in appearance, but in how I navigate life with grace and nurture my children’s independence and style. With my glasses on, I see the world she missed.
For those exploring paths to parenthood, you might find comfort in our blog about home insemination kits. It’s an excellent resource as you consider options, including artificial insemination kits for your journey. Plus, check out Johns Hopkins Fertility Center for more insights into fertility services.
In summary, the reflection of my mother in the mirror serves as a reminder of her enduring presence in my life, guiding me as I navigate motherhood and cherish the memories we shared.