Chapter 18 - The Mug Broke Again
I was sixty-six when the repaired blue mug fell from the shelf.
Max was gone by then.
A younger rescue dog named Charlie had replaced him—not in my heart, but in the house.
Charlie chased a toy into the kitchen.
The shelf shook.
The mug fell.
Crash.
I stood staring at the pieces.
For one strange second, I was sixty-one again.
Headache.
Fear.
David’s shaking hands.
Brandon’s glance.
Hospital lights.
Then I realized something.
I remembered everything.
Not perfectly.
Not every word.
But enough.
And memory no longer terrified me.
Brandon happened to be visiting.
He entered the kitchen.
Saw the pieces.
Stopped.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he asked:
“Do you want me to clean it up?”
I looked at him.
Five years earlier, David had immediately taken control.
Don’t move.
I’ll get it.
This time, my son asked.
Choice.
Such a small thing.
Such an enormous thing.
“Yes,” I said.
He fetched a broom.
I crouched beside him.
“Mom, careful.”
“I know.”
Together, we collected the pieces.
When he reached for the largest fragment, I stopped him.
“I want that one.”
“Why?”
I held the blue ceramic in my palm.
“Because I think it’s done being repaired.”
He understood.
We threw the rest away.
I kept one fragment.
May you like
Not because I needed evidence anymore.
Because scars deserve retirement too.
