She began her life as a 21st birthday gift — a sweet Queensland Maple duchess with a perfectly rounded mirror that caught the morning sun and the soft glow of lamplight at night. She was a place for perfume and pearls, and little moments of becoming.
She watched her young owner grow — brushing her hair before her wedding, pinning a corsage to her dress, tucking tiny bottles of baby oil and talc beneath her mirror after the babies came. She held keepsakes and tenderness in equal measure.
When a granddaughter arrived in the 1960s, she was gifted again — a tenth-birthday treasure for a little girl who adored her. The mirror became a companion then: ribbons, braids, whispered dreams, the fluttering beginning of girlhood confidence.
It was during those years her legs were shortened — lovingly, and for her new height — turning practicality into devotion.
Then life changed too soon. The little girl was gone, and her room fell quiet. The duchess stayed, too loved to part with, until her brother turned her into a desk for a time — the ink stains and soft scorch mark on the top telling their own chapter of growing up and getting through.
And still she remained. Through the hush of empty rooms, through the slow aging of a family, through the final packing of a home that had held them all.
Now, a century on, her maple still glows like honey in the late afternoon sun. The scarred top is no flaw — it is proof of a life witnessed and love remembered.
Her mirror remains gentle. Her presence still warm.
Because love, once given, never truly leaves the room.
