Mother’s medicine cabinet stood like a sentinel in our dimly lit bathroom, its mirrored surface reflecting fragments of our fractured family life. I watched her reorganize the bottles every Sunday morning, her jade bracelet clinking against the glass shelves as she arranged them with religious precision.
“Meimei, hand me that white bottle,” she’d say, her voice carrying the same detached elegance as her silk qipao. I’d reach for it, noting how the cabinet had grown fuller since Father left, each new prescription a quiet testament to her unspoken sorrows.
“Your mother takes too many pills,” Aunt Zhang would whisper during her weekly visits, her perfectly painted lips curling with practiced concern. “It’s not healthy for a woman her age.”
But Mother would simply smile, that distant smile that never quite reached her eyes. “My medicine cabinet keeps me standing,” she’d say, adjusting her pearl earrings in the mirror. “Like a proper lady should.”
I remember the day I first noticed the hidden compartment behind the aspirin bottles. Mother was hosting another one of her mahjong parties, her laughter floating up the stairs like cigarette smoke. The cabinet door had been left slightly ajar, unusual for someone so meticulous about order.
Inside, beneath a stack of faded prescriptions, lay a collection of unopened letters. All from Father, all bearing different postmarks, all returned unopened. Next to them, a wedding photo I’d never seen before - Mother in her red dress, young and radiant, Father’s hand resting possessively on her waist.
“Those aren’t for your eyes, Meimei.” Mother’s voice cut through the air like ice. I hadn’t heard her approach. She stood in the doorway, her mahjong friends’ chatter creating a distant chorus.
“Why did you keep them?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. The medicine cabinet wasn’t just storing pills - it was housing memories, preserving them like specimens in formaldehyde.
Mother’s perfectly manicured fingers closed around the cabinet door. “Some things are better left sealed away,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar mixture of dignity and despair. “Like expired medicine.”
She closed the cabinet with a soft click, our reflections merging in the mirror - her elegant posture, my uncertain youth. The bottles rattled slightly, a chorus of tiny glass voices speaking secrets we’d never acknowledge.
“Your aunt is waiting downstairs,” she said, smoothing her hair. “Don’t keep her waiting. It’s impolite.”
I left the bathroom, the image of those unopened letters burning in my mind. Behind me, I heard the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock, sealing away not just medicine, but an entire history of unspoken words and untaken pills.
The mahjong tiles continued their eternal dance downstairs, while upstairs, the medicine cabinet stood watch, guardian of our family’s carefully curated illusions.