Chapter 18 - The Blue MugUnpacking the final box in my townhouse took three months.
I kept avoiding it.
Old photographs.
Kitchen things.
Objects that belonged nowhere.
At the bottom sat a blue mug Andrew had given me for Mother’s Day years earlier.
WORLD’S BEST MOM
Rebecca had been drinking from it the morning I confronted her about the lender documents.
For months, seeing that mug made me angry.
I held it above the trash can.
Then stopped.
It was ceramic.
Rebecca did not own the memory.
Neither did the worst morning of my life.
Andrew had bought it when he was twenty-two.
He had been broke.
He came to my house with supermarket flowers and that ridiculous mug.
My husband teased him for choosing something so sentimental.
Andrew said:
“She’ll use it.”
He was right.
I washed it.
There was a tiny chip beside the handle.
I placed it in the cabinet with the ordinary cups.
Not displayed.
Not hidden.
That felt correct.
Some memories do not need to be destroyed.
They need to lose their authority.
Later that evening Sandra called.
The remaining salon had made a small profit that quarter.
She sounded proud.
“I thought losing the second location would kill me.”
“It didn’t.”
“No.”
She laughed quietly.
“It gave me time to breathe.”
Rebecca was working for another beauty company.
Not glamorous.
Stable.
Sandra said she was paying back money slowly.
I did not ask how much.
That account belonged to them.
Before hanging up, Sandra said:
“I still think about that day at your kitchen table.”
“So do I.”
“I’m glad you didn’t sell the house for us.”
I smiled at the irony.
“I did sell it.”
May you like
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
