Picking Up the Pieces

Ema cried as she bent down to pick up the remains of her cherished mug. A gift from Grandma Rose, it was all she had left of her. It lay broken, much like her spirit.

Grandma Rose was everything to Ema during her formative years. Ema’s Mother was just a shadow of what a true mother should be, lost in the haze of addiction and loneliness after Ema’s Father chose another life.

But Ema’s Mother wasn’t a monster. She was bitter and crushed under the weight of so much heartache and fear. Grandma Rose saw it and offered Ema refuge before she succumbed to the strain.

Ema moved in with Grandma. Her Mother didn’t object. She wasn’t entirely absent, visiting every so often with gifts and trips to the park, a feeble attempt at motherhood.

Ema’s Mother knew she couldn’t raise her and understood she was better off with Grandma.

The visits ended, though, after Ema’s eighteenth birthday. All grown up, her Mother felt she could move away, and Ema’s life continued.

Much like her Mother, Ema’s life orbits around her husband. She lives with a similar fear of abandonment, but a greater fear of becoming her Mother should life take an unfortunate turn for the worse.

“Mommy. Why are you crying?” Ema’s daughter asked.

“I dropped Grandma Rose’s mug, and it broke, sweety.”

“Here, Mommy, you can have mine.”