The Woman in the Microwave Door

I caught my reflection in the microwave door at 2am and I didn’t recognise her. Not in a poetic way. In the way that makes your stomach drop.

The kitchen was dark. The house was quiet. I was standing there with a cup of tea I’d made three hours ago that had gone cold because I’d forgotten I’d made it because forgetting things was what I did now. Forgetting was the only thing my brain had capacity for after spending all its energy on surviving.

And there she was. In the microwave door. A smudged, dark reflection of a woman I used to know.

She looked tired. Obviously. But it wasn’t the tired you can fix with sleep. It was the tired that lives in your bones. The tired that comes from years of being someone else’s version of yourself. Of performing. Of adjusting. Of answering to a name that was yours but felt borrowed.

I couldn’t remember the last decision I’d made that was mine. Not his. Not theirs. Not for the kids. Not to keep the peace. Mine.

What music do I like. I don’t know. He chose the music.
What food do I want. I don’t know. I cook what he eats.
What do I actually enjoy doing. I don’t know. Enjoying things wasn’t on the schedule.

I’d been performing contentment for so long I’d forgotten it was a performance. Smiling at pickup. Laughing at his jokes that weren’t jokes, they were tests. Nodding when his mother said I was lucky.

Lucky. As though love is something you win by being quiet enough.

That night I didn’t cry. I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t make a plan. I just stood there and let the truth land.

I have no idea who I am without this.

And instead of terror I felt the faintest thing. A flicker. Not hope. That came later. Just space. A crack where something new could eventually grow.

The woman in the microwave door looked back at me and I made her a promise.

I’m going to find you. Whoever you are under all of this. I’m going to find you.

I’m still looking. But at least now I know she’s in there.