Chapter 19 - The Reflection
That night, after the celebration dinner at her favorite Italian restaurant and after the yellow roses had been arranged in a glass vase on our kitchen table, I went upstairs to say goodnight to Iris.
She was sitting on her bed in her pajamas, carefully wiping the rosin dust off the strings of her violin with a soft microfiber cloth before returning it to its velvet-lined case. Her room was clean, quiet, and filled with the gentle, comforting identity of who she was—origami cranes hung from the ceiling on invisible nylon threads, bookshelves were packed with classic literature, and watercolor paintings adorned the walls.
I sat on the edge of her mattress, watching her close the brass clasps of her violin case with her left hand.
"You were magnificent tonight, Iris," I said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "There wasn't a single person in that auditorium who didn't feel the magic you created on that stage."
Iris looked down at her left wrist, tracing her finger lightly over the thin, silver surgical scar that ran across her skin. She was silent for a long moment, thoughtful and mature in a way that always humbled me.
"Do you ever think about Gavin, Dad?" she asked quietly, looking up at me.
The question caught me slightly off guard. "Sometimes," I admitted honestly. "When I see a high school football game on television, or when I look at your scar. Do you?"
Iris nodded slowly. "Sometimes. But not like I used to. I used to think about him and feel my stomach get all tight and cold, like I needed to hide in a closet so he wouldn't see me. I used to think that because he was big and loud, he was strong, and because I was small and quiet, I was weak."
She looked at her left hand, opening and closing her fingers into a firm, steady fist. "But Ms. Rodriguez told me something during therapy when my hand was hurting really bad. She said that muscles and bones only get stronger when they have to push against resistance. She said that being loud and hurting people who can't fight back isn't strength—it’s just acting like a wrecking ball because you don't know how to build anything."
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She looked up into my eyes, her gaze crystal clear and shining with absolute, unshakeable certainty. "Gavin is a wrecking ball, Dad. He broke my bone, but he didn't build anything in his whole life. We built my hand back. We built my music back. That makes us stronger than he ever was."
I swallowed hard, pulling her into my arms and kissing the top of her head. "You are the strongest person I know, Iris Mercer. Never let anyone in this world convince you otherwise."
