He opened his mouth but I cut him off.
‘How could you be so careless? That plate belonged to my mother.’
I stormed from the room, slamming the door. Hard.
I walked for an hour, my anger slowly ebbing but we didn’t speak when I returned. We ate dinner in silence. Watched television in silence. Turned to our respective sides of the bed… in silence.
We spoke only in polite, stilted sentences for the rest of the week.
On Friday, when I returned from work he led me into the garden and pointed to a beautiful mosaic birdbath.
‘Mum would have loved it,’ I whispered, fingering the pieces of the plate careful positioned over the shallow bowl.
The old chipped plate had long been an accident waiting to happen, balanced precariously on the mantelpiece. Now it was part of a work of art and so much better than before.
I slipped my hand into his and looked into his eyes. No words necessary. He understood and, like the plate, we were stronger and better for the incident.
A small bird flew down from a nearby tree and perched on the edge.
Mum adored birds.