I stood in my pretty peach bathroom. An ivory tapestry print shower curtain masked the tub. Rose-and-green-striped Crabtree and Evelyn toiletries filled a basket on the peach carpet by my feet. The air was sweet with peach and Elizabethan Rose potpourri. I’d put a lot of time and money into getting this room exactly right. It didn’t help. I stood in my perfect bathroom and stared into the mirror. The face was young, but its lines were heavy, its eyes ancient and bruised. It hurt to look into them, even for me, trapped behind them.
What went wrong, and when? The face should be pretty, the woman behind it happy. All the parts were there—even features, a good brain, an adequate education, taste, even a decent body, now that I was too unhappy to eat—but they were locked away out of reach. They always had been.
Tonight I accepted for the first time that they always would be. I stared into my own face and understood that there would be no “when.” Things would never be better. I would never find the key to the talents and advantages lying locked out of reach within me. I would never remember how to be happy.
