One wall is covered in mirrors, small ones, no bigger than my hand. They are all odd shapes and sizes with intricate metal frames, and have been hung haphazardly in place with rusty nails and rustic twine. There must be fifty sets of our faces reflected back at us. Almost as though all the versions of ourselves we became to try and make our marriage work have gathered together to look down on who we’ve become. Part of me is glad I can’t recognise them. I’m not sure I’d like what I saw if I could.
