A beautiful house stands on a hill.
It's light and bright inside, with tall beams, gorgeous fixtures, and all kinds of charm. It's both haven and home to a precious few, though a handful of visitors have passed through its doors.
The road to this house is clear, and its view is breathtaking and unobstructed. All eyes are on this house because it's commanding and impossible to miss. It has inhabited this hill for generations.
Though it's filled with both promise and possibility, nearly everyone around resides in its shadow. The house seems solid, secure, and destined to endure. Except it's not. Bit by bit, its foundation is crumbling.
He hung a mirror in this house a while back. He found the stud, hammered in a nail, and placed the mirror high on the wall just above eye level. Perfect, he thought as he stood back and admired his refection. Then he turned off the light without another thought.
She'd always seen the house on the hill but never ventured inside or beyond. Until the day she climbed the hill. It took longer than expected, and when she finally reached the house, she struggled to steady and catch her breath. Even on the inside, she struggled to see.
Until the day she found a stool.
To see the horizon and herself, she pulled out the stool then put it away so he wouldn't trip. Over and again, she pulled out then put away the stool. Until she spoke up.
"Might we lower this mirror a bit," she asked, "so we may both enjoy the view and see ourselves more clearly?"
"But this is how it goes," he explained.
So she pulled out her stool, put it away, and the mirror remained. Until years later when she tried again.
"What if we—"
"No," he interrupted. "This is how it's always been."
So little changed and the mirror remained. Until the day she forgot to tuck away her stool and he stumbled over it.
His indifference shifted to irritation. He resented the inconvenience and her high maintenance. So each of their voices grew louder in the precarious house atop the hill. And the mirror remained.
Until the day she lowered it herself.
Her reflection was radiant, like nothing she'd seen before. And he was incredulous. "I can barely see above my belly button!"
She spoke of collaboration and compromise. "If you'll just look from my perspective," she pleaded. But he refused. Accused. He felt undermined by her overcorrection, and he told her so.
"This is my house, and I am its humble servant," he shouted. "This is where a mirror belongs," he continued then moved the mirror just beyond her reach—back where it began.
But she could never unsee what she had seen.
And he—no longer needing to flex or to bend—held his head high and his shoulders back. Perfect, he thought. Then looked into his own eyes before he turned off the light.
