Fractured

 

We received this set of dishes from our wedding registry. They’re nothing fancy, but neither are we. Shortly after acquiring them, we experienced several heartbreaking losses from failed pregnancies, the last of which was an ectopic and required a painful procedure to abort which only enhanced the mental ache. Not sure if we could muster the strength to try again, we got a puppy. He eased the pain and we decided to give it one final attempt. This time, the pregnancy seemed to be progressing better than the others had. 

We lived in an 800 sq. foot house, and I panicked. If things continued to go well, we would not have room for a child and a 95-pound dog. So, we found a new house, and we moved in when I was around five or six months along. As I was unpacking the dishes, I realized that there were only three of these bowl/mug thingies. It seemed I’d inadvertently left one of them behind. And as I put the three remaining dishes away, I thought to myself, it’s okay. We are going to be a family of three. We won’t need a fourth one. And that was true. As a family of three, we’ve used these bowls regularly—for cereal, ice cream, soup, and everything in between. 

And now, my daughter is set to leave for college at the end of the week. So, while she ate leftovers from one of these mugs a few days ago, she said to me, “did you know this has a big crack in it?” And sure enough, there’s a fracture running the entire length of the dish. 

As I threw it out, I felt this fracture sharply in my heart. It’s been a perfect eighteen years. I could not have asked for a better child. I also cannot imagine this house without her in it. This transition is not something I’d even considered all those years ago, but it’s hitting me hard. I’m still so grateful every day that I got to have her for eighteen years that I can’t believe it’s time to let her go, but I’m going to do it. I know she’ll be fine. It’s time for there to be just the two bowls in the cabinet again, but that doesn’t make it any easier.