There was no return address.
Inside was the blue ceramic vase that had shattered onto the floor the night Brandon attacked Mom.
Someone had carefully glued every broken piece back together.
Visible gold-painted lines traced each crack across the surface.
Mom held the restored vase in both hands.
“Brandon sent this, didn’t he?”
“Does it bother you to look at it?”
She carried it to the windowsill and placed it where the sunlight illuminated the gold cracks.
“Some things in life are worth repairing because they still hold real value,” she said. “But there are other things you have to walk away from the moment you understand how easily they break.”
A year later, I purchased a cozy two-bedroom condo with a bright balcony and an open kitchen.
One morning, I woke early to the sound of Mom moving pots and pans around downstairs.
When she saw me, she immediately looked worried.
