I sit in front of the vanity in my room as my father brushes my hair. This has been our routine since I was a child. Every morning I get dressed and call my father in to brush my hair.
"You look just like your mother." He says, every morning.
"She was beautiful." He says. Every miserable morning.
I sit in silence, knowing that if I reply there is a high possibility it will set him off. I learned not to speak of my mother when I was 8. Like clockwork, my father brushing my hair as I sat in front of the ancient vanity, recalled my mother's beauty. "I miss her, father." I spoke. I was a foolish child.
His hands halted to a stop as he locked eyes with mine through the mirror. They were cold and dark, a trait I unfortunately inherited. I shook as the hairbrush collided with the mirror, throwing shards of glass across my cheeks and onto the floor. My father spun me around, gripping my shoulders.
"You do not miss her. You never met her, child. She was MINE. MY love, before she was ever your mother. You took her from me, stripped her life away. You do not have the right to mourn someone you murdered."
I could barely see through the tears. Pain shot down my arms from his grip. There was no warmth in his eyes. There never had been. Any care or kindness my father possessed had been buried with my mother and left to the maggots.
He stormed out of the room, leaving me to clean the glass from the floor as I sobbed apologies to whoever would listen.
Now I sit in the same spot a decade later, with new understandings (and a new mirror), and I know not to speak of my mother. Though I see her in all my features excluding my eyes. My eyes, which I cannot bring myself to look at, fearing I will see the neverending rage and grief my father holds in his own. As he finishes my hair with a ribbon and leaves to prepare breakfast, I reluctantly think of those words he said to me so long ago.
You do not have the right to mourn someone you murdered.
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