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A mother
Des Moines, IA. Twenty twenty-five. October ninth.

My daughter won’t go near the bathroom mirror anymore. She says the other girl is rude. Not mean. Rude. Like she doesn’t know her place.

I told her it was imagination. Kids see things. I offered to put up fairy lights, make the room cozy. She said, “She doesn’t care about lights. She already knows my name.”

That stopped me cold. I asked, gently, how she knew. She said she heard it. Not out loud. In her head. But not in her voice.

I tried watching with her. We stood side by side. Our reflections looked fine, normal. Then my daughter whispered, “Wait.” And I saw it. The other girl mouthed a word. Could have been anything. Could have been Emily. That’s her name.

I pulled her away. Covered the mirror with a towel. But towels slip. Towels fall. And the other girl is patient.

Last night, I heard giggling from the bathroom. High, bright, doubled. When I opened the door, the mirror was fogged from nothing, and two handprints smeared it clear. One small. One not.