A/N: Thanks to my PTB betas Say Goodbye Again and Twilightrocks122. PTB's work is amazing, they help people just for the sake of helping!
During the many years of my existence, I have seen a range of different faces looking back at me from the mirror.
When I was a little girl, I would often see dimples and flushed cheeks. Fortunately, I can say I enjoyed a happy childhood, even if I don't remember much of it. That was how I eventually landed myself in the hospital ward where I first met Doctor Carlisle Cullen – climbing a tree at age sixteen; disobeying my parents.
I can still remember the way my eyes shone the morning I returned home from the hospital. The image on the mirror nearly floated a few inches above the ground.
A few years later, there was an enthusiastic, dreamy-eyed young woman on the crystal's surface. She had her hands full of hopes, and her head swarmed with plans for the future. I wanted to teach, to leave my mark on the world, to be in touch with young minds and infuse in them high ideals and dreams of change. But my parents veiled the glass on that occasion.
There were horror pictures in the mirror, too; masks of abuse and submissiveness; portraits of fear, desperation and hopelessness. Once upon a time, the woman staring back at me was meek, tyrannized into terror. Too weak to break free from the lead chains that tied her to a monster, too dutiful to her parents, too compliant with the rules of social etiquette. "Hide your bruises and smile," my mother advised me. "Be a better wife and your husband won't feel the need to correct you anymore," my father instructed.
And the woman in the mirror composed herself and fixed on her lips an artificial grimace that tried to pass for a smile. She looked like a wax doll, unnaturally rigid and lifeless. But no one asked any questions about the doll's sickly colors, and she was too preoccupied struggling to keep her insides from turning waxy, too.
At a different time, the reflection-woman thrived and glowed with an unearthly light, a full maternity belly showing under her clothes. The bruises had all but faded, and the proper colors had returned to her cheeks.
But both the image and the mirror brutally cracked shortly afterwards. And with them my soul. When my son died, my eyes clouded, and I started to fade along with my impression.
I crossed the border and very nearly disappeared altogether. If not for Carlisle, I would have, but he was there to catch me when I fell. With his endless devotion and his all-encompassing love, he repaired every one of my broken pieces. When he changed me, he gave me a new life in every possible sense; he painted the world in a whole new palette of colors for me. He healed my body and my heart.
I look into the mirror now, and a satisfied smile spreads on my lips; because, where the image always felt incomplete in the past, notwithstanding all the changes it endured, it now looks entirely perfect. It is the right picture on the mirror, at last.
Next to my own reflection, Carlisle's sits on the couch, a book on his lap, his expression one of half-hearted concentration. My contented smile turns into one of affection. I know what's distracting my husband's attention as I can hear my youngest son's voice drifting to me from his open bedroom door. He's laughing, and it is such a charming sound, I thrill from head to feet.
Delighted, I reach a hand up to my heart, compelling myself to behave and not break into an ecstatic dance all around the room. Then, Bella's laughter joins Edward's, and my silent heart leaps and soars up into the sky.
Carlisle's head rises, and his eyes meet mine on the glass – both golden pairs speak of hope, light, love, and unbound joy.
In an infinitesimal fraction of a second, my husband joins me on the reflection, his arms around my waist, his cheek resting on my hair. He simply holds me, not needing to speak any words to convey the peace and contentment that courses through him. Our son's happiness has lifted a heavy weight from our shoulders – one we carried for nearly a century.
As I close my eyes and drift away into a bubble of sheer merriment, relaxing completely for perhaps the first time in my vampire existence, I need to cast no glance at the woman in the mirror to know what she looks like now. She's whole. She's exultant. She's at peace with the world.
And all around her, seven other figures float in and out of the picture, physically present or absent as they go about their daily activities. But they are part of the portrait forever, even my recently acquired but already much-loved human daughter.
The woman in the mirror will never stand broken and forsaken again. My family will stand with me for eternity.