The old vanity in Lydia’s childhood bedroom had once been a thing of beauty. Its mirror, now cloudy with time, had reflected her dreams when she was young. She had imagined a future full of warmth, where love was freely given, where she wasn’t just tolerated but cherished.
But the house had never been a home. The furniture, elegant but cold, was much like the family that owned it—beautiful on the surface but empty beneath. Words of affection were sparse, replaced by criticism disguised as concern. Lydia had spent years trying to please them, to carve a space for herself in their rigid world, but the edges were too sharp, and she was tired of bleeding.
One evening, she stood in front of the vanity, staring at her own reflection. For years, she had searched for beauty in their approval, but now, she realized, beauty was in freedom. Beauty was in leaving.
She packed her things and left that night, stepping into a world that was imperfect but real. Her new apartment was small and filled with secondhand furniture, but every scratch, every dent, held a story. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers.
Weeks later, she passed an antique shop and saw a vanity just like the one she had left behind. She ran her fingers over the worn wood, smiling. She no longer needed a reflection to tell her who she was. She had already found herself.
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