{"id":239,"date":"2025-12-19T18:42:25","date_gmt":"2025-12-19T18:42:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/slightlydoolally.com\/stories\/?p=239"},"modified":"2025-12-19T18:42:28","modified_gmt":"2025-12-19T18:42:28","slug":"the-woman-in-the-mirror","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/slightlydoolally.com\/stories\/index.php\/2025\/12\/19\/the-woman-in-the-mirror\/","title":{"rendered":"The woman in the mirror"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Kate MacHugh lived in Number Five, Nether Oak Close, the house up beside the post-box and the bus stop. It was a clean, square little place, pebble-dashed and neat, the sort of house where things had their assigned places and where those things stayed. Inside, the order sharpened into something close to ritual. Her hallway smelled faintly of lavender polish. Her wardrobe was colour-coordinated to an almost monastic degree. Every surface shimmered with care.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And in this house, mirrors multiplied like rabbits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Small ones for eyeliner. Tall ones for outfit checks. Wide, bevel-edged ones catching morning light. A Venetian-framed one that had cost more than she would ever admit to her accountant. Mirrors on walls, on dressing tables, in corners where they reflected one another in infinite regress. Her house didn\u2019t simply contain<\/em> mirrors, it curated them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate was the senior editor of Vibrant You!<\/em> Northern Ireland\u2019s leading magazine for the middle-aged woman with aspirations, aspirations to look well-rested, to stay intimate with her spouse, to glow, to stay relevant, to aspire to whatever the denizens of Cultra thought was \u201cjust right\u201d. She had spent twenty years trimming, titivating, and tastefully reframing the world into something smoother than reality. And without ever deciding to, she had begun trimming and reframing herself in the same way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The morning it began was perfectly normal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her alarm played the cheerful synth chime she had chosen three years ago. She showered, blow-dried her hair, applied her makeup with swift practised strokes. Mascara, eyeliner, light blush, she kept it subtle these days. Tastefully ageless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Breakfast was muesli with a dash of milk; eaten from the Louis Mulcahy Raku bowl she\u2019d bought on that Dingle photo shoot. Chris and Sarah on Good Morning Ulster were grilling a TUV politician who was avoiding their questions with the slippery elegance of a trout. Kate sighed. Sometimes she wished she lived anywhere but Northern Ireland.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She washed the bowl, left it on the draining board, and grabbed her bag and keys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The last step of her routine, her ritual, was always the same. She paused in the hallway and looked into the full-length mirror beside the coat hooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hair: check.
Makeup: check.
Jewellery: check.
Accessories: check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Presentable. Polished. Correct.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She turned to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And out of the corner of her eye she saw her reflection still standing face-on in the mirror, shoulders slumping with what looked overwhelmingly like resignation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate spun back. The reflection behaved normally again, mirroring her movements precisely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stared for a moment. Blinked.
“Not enough coffee,” she muttered, and left for work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the time she reached the office, she had dismissed it entirely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When she returned that evening, the mirror incident was forgotten. She hung her coat on the hook, brushed a stray hair from her collar, and walked toward the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was only when she glanced, automatically, into the hallway mirror that she froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wasn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her coat, the hall table, the umbrella stand, reflected perfectly. But Kate herself had no reflection at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her pulse spiked. She took a cautious step toward the glass. As the angle shifted, she caught a glimpse,not of the hall, but of the living room beyond it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her reflection, her other self, <\/em>sat on the sofa, back turned, a thin curl of smoke drifting upward from her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate choked.
\u201cBut I quit smoking ten years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The reflected figure on the sofa took a long drag, exhaled, and the ashtray glowed faintly red.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the hell,\u201d Kate whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The image blinked out. Her own reflection popped back into place, showing a pale woman with wide startled eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate backed away. \u201cNo. No. No.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She waited for dizziness, for a headache, for some sign she was losing touch with reality. It didn\u2019t come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mirror stayed ordinary. The house stayed quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But that night, turning off the lights, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck.
As though someone was standing just inside the glass<\/em>, watching her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next evening, it escalated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stepped into the hall, tired, hungry, irritated by a vapid article she’d spent the afternoon salvaging.
\u201cFive Ways to Be Radiant at Any Age.\u201d
God help her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She walked past the mirror. Once again, no reflection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This time she didn\u2019t hesitate.
\u201cRight,\u201d she said, planting herself in front of the glass. \u201cI\u2019m sick of this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her voice echoed down the hallway. The mirror surface rippled like water stirred by a stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her reflection appeared slowly, deliberately<\/em>, and stared at her. The reflection\u2019s eyes were sharp and older than they should have been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate swallowed.
\u201cWhat do you want from me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The reflection sighed. A real, audible sigh.
\u201cAt last,\u201d it said. \u201cYou\u2019re paying attention.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The voice didn\u2019t echo from the house.
It echoed from the mirror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate staggered back. \u201cWhat\u2026what are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The reflection unfolded its arms. It moved with the casual confidence of someone who had never once doubted their place in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am called many things,\u201d it said. \u201cBut you may know me as Badh<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate frowned. \u201cThe bird woman? The crow? The Irish goddess?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAspect of,\u201d the reflection corrected lightly. \u201cInsight. Foreknowledge. Truth. The new broom that sweeps cleaner than the old.\u201d She smiled thinly. \u201cAnd god knows you need a bit of a clean up, Kate MacHugh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate bristled. \u201cI beg your pardon?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t.\u201d
The reflection tapped the glass.
\u201cYou\u2019ve built a life out of surfaces. Obsessed with looking<\/em> like yourself. You\u2019ve long forgotten how to be<\/em> yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate\u2019s throat tightened. \u201cThat\u2019s not true.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t it?\u201d the reflection said. \u201cLet\u2019s have a look.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mirror image dissolved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In its place she saw herself at twenty-five, smoking on the fire escape of her first magazine job, hair wild, eyes bright with ideas, ranting passionately about how women deserved better than anti-ageing drivel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe was brilliant,\u201d Badh said. \u201cAnd you\u2019ve spent twenty years suffocating her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The image shifted, now Kate at forty, sitting on the edge of a bathtub, mascara streaked, heart newly broken. Writing through the pain. Writing with a raw, startling honesty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou used to tell the truth,\u201d Badh murmured. \u201cEven when it hurt.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then the mirror went black.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nothing reflected. No hall. No Kate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis,\u201d said Badh, \u201cis where you\u2019re heading. A sleek, hollow thing. Efficient. Silent. A woman who edits herself out of her own life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate\u2019s knees weakened. She clutched the wall.
\u201cWhy are you showing me this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause you\u2019ve stopped listening to smaller warnings.\u201d
A pause.
\u201cBecause inspiration, true inspiration, is not pretty. And you have been trying to peel away everything in yourself that isn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. \u201cI don\u2019t know who I am anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood,\u201d Badh said. \u201cThen there\u2019s space to find out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over the next week, the mirrors would not leave her alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the morning, she saw herself at her desk, staring at a blank page with furious determination.
In the evening, she saw herself dancing in a bar in Portstewart, she barely remembered being young enough to enter. Late at night, she saw no one at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At work she found herself rewriting articles in tones that made her colleagues blink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her version of \u201c5 Ways to Stay Youthful\u201d began:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stop pretending you\u2019re not ageing.
You are.
You\u2019re not a peach. You\u2019re not meant to stay firm forever.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her editor-in-chief hated it.
The junior staff whispered, excited.
Her inbox filled with readers who said, \u201cThank you. Someone finally said it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Something cracked inside her, something brittle, something long overdue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One evening she stood again before the mirror.
She was exhausted, but not the dull kind of exhaustion that came from sameness.
The good kind, creative fatigue, a draining of emotional honesty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her reflection looked back at her with something like approval.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate asked, quietly, \u201cWhy me? I\u2019m not a hero. I\u2019m just\u2026 stuck.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Badh tilted her head.
\u201cYou mortals think I visit only the desperate. Only the doomed. But stagnation, stagnation is a kind of death. And I am here to clear that away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate swallowed. \u201cSo what now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat depends on you,\u201d Badh said. \u201cYou can return to your polished cage. Or you can open the door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mirror calmed. The surface went still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Kate blinked, her reflection looked exactly like her again, tired, makeup smudged, scarf askew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But she didn\u2019t correct any of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning, she took down the mirror in her bedroom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A week later, she removed three more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the end of the month, she stood in the hallway, coat in hand and walked past the full-length mirror without looking into it at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The glass stayed clear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No goddess spoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But on the hall table sat a single black feather, glossy and iridescent in the morning light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kate touched it with the tips of her fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she picked up her keys, stepped out into the day, and for the first time in years, felt entirely like herself and was ready for the day.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Kate McHugh learns a valuable lesson from a woman that lives in her mirror
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