Under Grumpa's Hat

Robert and Elaina had wandered into one of those antique shops that feel more like attics than storefronts, where the air smells of old wood and forgotten stories. Tucked away in the corner stood a tall mirror with a carved wooden frame, worn smooth by time. Its glass was imperfect, rippled in places, as though it had grown tired of reflecting so much life.

It was taller than most mirrors they had seen, its carved wooden frame standing like a sentinel in the corner of a dusty shop in San Ramón. The shopkeeper spoke of it with little ceremony, but when the couple paused in front of it, something about its quiet presence felt different.

They bought it together, carrying it carefully back to their home on the edge of town where the breeze carried the scent of mango trees. It seemed only natural to place it in their bedroom, where morning light would spill across its face and evenings would soften it into shadow.

The first time Elena undressed before it, she laughed. “This mirror is older than both of us,” she said, running her hand along the smooth curve of its frame. Yet her laughter faded as her eyes settled on her reflection. The mirror did not flatter. It traced the lines around her eyes, the curve of her shoulders, and the way her body had changed since the years when she was first married.

Later, when Robert stood before it, the mirror was equally unkind, or perhaps simply honest. It showed the roundness around his middle, the grey threading its way through his hair, the tired posture he had never noticed before. He shook his head, half-smiling.

But as the weeks passed, they began to realize the mirror was not cruel. It told the truth… but never the whole truth. It showed Elena her lines, but not the years she had spent raising children, the sleepless nights, the laughter-filled mornings, and the quiet strength that had carried her through. It showed Robert his thinning hair and heavier frame, but not the decades of work that had provided, nor the way his daughter’s face still lit up when she saw him.

Each evening, as they prepared for bed, the mirror seemed to whisper pieces of their story. Not with words, but with reminders. Youth had slipped quietly away, but love had not. The mirror could not reveal the warmth of Elena’s hand in Robert’s, nor the comfort of knowing they had walked through so many years together.

One night, as they undressed and stood side by side in front of it, Robert touched the glass gently and said, “It doesn’t lie, but it leaves so much unsaid.”

Elena smiled. “That’s because the rest is ours to remember.”

And so the mirror remained, a witness in the corner of their room. It revealed the years etched on their faces, the silver woven into their hair, the quiet truth of time passing. But it also reminded them of what it could never capture.

Because the mirror does not lie, yet it rarely tells the whole story.