She was sure it was her Mother staring back at her in the mirror. This couldn’t be her. The lines on her face were new, her Mother had those, not her. She remembered tracing the lines with her plump little child fingers. Her Mother called them the map of her journey, of where she had lived.
“Your face tells a story, Mitsi. Don’t let anyone erase it.”
That was easy for her to say, wasn’t it? She was a stay at home Mum before it was fashionable. She wiped our snotty noses and kissed our grazed knees, all the while making sure we had food in our bellies and clean clothes on our backs, before blogger Mummies were posting photos of it on Facebook.
It’s an honourable job, but not for me. It’s been years since she’s asked me for Grandchildren. I’m sure she thinks I’m going to turn into ash or something if my uterus isn’t used for cooking up a baby.
It’s not what I wanted for myself.
The creaky boards of the stage, the blistering spotlight and the quiet reverence of the theatre. Yes. This is my home.
More than anything I lived to see the looks on the faces of the audience. The laughter and despair of a play, the entwined highs and lows. I wanted the adrenalin rush before I stepped on the stage, the staccato beating of my heart in my chest, the fizziness of excitement through my veins. This is my life.
But when the spotlight dims, the curtain closes and the adrenalin is washed away by the scotch. When your husband finally leaves you for his girlfriend, because she is pregnant.
The mirror is harsh without the soft backlights, but reality is harder. Behind the makeup and costumes. Behind the toothy smiles and couture, beats a real heart, inside of a real person. Sometimes in the insta-glare of fame, even the most talented are drowning.