It was a tough week for my husband, Robert, and me. We had just returned from his twin brother, Ben’s funeral.
The loss was unimaginable. Robert and Ben had been inseparable their entire lives—best friends, partners in crime, always in sync.
I knew this would hit Robert harder than anything else, but I had no idea how deeply it would affect him.
At the funeral, Robert had put on a brave face, but I could see the hurt in his eyes.
He didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was always about how unfair it was that Ben was gone.
I knew he needed time to grieve, but I didn’t expect the changes that would soon unfold.
It started with small things. Robert, usually so punctual, began forgetting things. He’d leave his phone in the car, forget to lock the front door, even leave the lights on when he went to bed.
I chalked it up to grief. After all, we all handle loss in our own way, right?
But then the behavior became stranger, more unsettling.
One evening, after dinner, I went to our bedroom to find Robert standing in front of the full-length mirror, staring at his reflection. It wasn’t like him.
Robert was never the type to spend time in front of a mirror, not in any kind of contemplative way.
But there he was, looking at himself with an intensity that made me uneasy.
“Robert?” I called out softly. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on his reflection, and I could see his lips moving, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
“Robert?” I said again, a little louder this time.
Finally, he seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in. He turned slowly, as if waking from a deep thought, and looked at me with a faint, almost wistful smile. “Sorry, just… thinking about Ben,” he said quietly.
I nodded, though something felt off. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting a little distant lately.”
He didn’t meet my gaze right away, his eyes flicking back to the mirror.
“I miss him,” he whispered. “I just wish I could talk to him.”
The sadness in his voice made my heart ache, but what worried me was the way he looked at the mirror. It wasn’t just sorrow—it was as if he was waiting for Ben to appear. I pushed the thought aside, thinking it was just a moment of deep mourning.
But the next few days were no better.
I found Robert in front of the mirror again, this time talking aloud. His words were soft, but I could hear him clearly as I stood by the door.
“You’ve always been the stronger one, Ben,” Robert murmured.
“You always knew what to say to make me feel better. I just wish you were here. I don’t know how to do this without you.”
I was frozen, unsure of how to approach him. The sadness was palpable, but there was something deeply unsettling about the way he was speaking, like he was addressing someone in the mirror as though Ben were still there.
I finally entered the room, my voice gentle. “Robert, you can talk to me, you know that, right?”
He turned slowly, his face pale and drawn. His eyes were wide, almost as if he hadn’t noticed me standing there. “Oh, it’s just… Ben. I was just talking to him. He’s right there, you know?”
I blinked, my chest tightening. “Robert… there’s no one there. It’s just you and me.”
He seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in, but his face remained lost, almost as if he couldn’t entirely bring himself back to reality.
“I know, I know. I just… I don’t know how to let go of him, Claire. It feels like he’s still here with me.”
His voice cracked, and my heart broke. “Robert, I know it’s hard. Losing him was unimaginable for both of us, but… we need to move forward. I need you here with me.”
“I am here with you,” he whispered, but his eyes returned to the mirror. “But Ben… he’s not really gone, is he? He’s still… here.”
The next few days were the same. Robert would spend hours talking to the mirror, sometimes asking questions, sometimes just sharing his thoughts as if Ben were standing right next to him.
He would recount memories, laugh at jokes only the two of them understood, and sometimes, I’d even hear him apologize for things he thought Ben would have been upset about.
One night, I overheard him in the living room talking to the mirror again. I couldn’t help myself; I stood quietly at the edge of the doorway, listening.
It was as if Robert couldn’t tell the difference between the reflection and the memory of his brother anymore.
“I don’t know what to do without you,” he was saying, his voice choked with emotion.
“I’m scared, Ben. I’m scared that I’m going to forget you. That I’m going to forget everything about you.”
I felt a lump form in my throat. It was so raw, so painful, hearing him speak like that.
He was breaking, and I couldn’t reach him. It was as though the grief had consumed him entirely.
But the worst part was when Robert started mimicking the gestures Ben used to make.
He would stand in the same way, hold his arms the way Ben had, even laugh in the exact same way.
It was as if he was trying to channel Ben, to step into his shoes, to be him.
I couldn’t bear it anymore. I couldn’t watch my husband slowly lose himself in his grief.
I reached out to a therapist. Robert didn’t want to go at first. He said he didn’t need it, that he was fine.
But when he started talking to the mirror in front of the therapist, the truth became undeniable.
It wasn’t just grief anymore; it was a mental health crisis.
The therapist explained to Robert that grief could manifest in different ways, and sometimes it could cause a person to lose touch with reality.
Robert wasn’t talking to Ben in the mirror, she explained—it was his mind’s way of holding onto something that was no longer there, trying to fill the emptiness left by his twin.
It took time, but Robert slowly began to heal.
The therapist worked with him, helping him confront his grief in a healthier way.
The conversations with the mirror stopped. Eventually, he started talking about Ben in a way that didn’t make him feel like he was still alive.
The journey was long and emotional, but with support, Robert slowly reclaimed his life.
He found a way to keep his brother’s memory alive without letting it consume him.
In the end, I was proud of him. But I also learned something vital about grief—that it can shape you in ways you never expect.