Maisie found the blue bowl on the kitchen counter.
It was Grandma's blue bowl. The one with the tiny white flowers painted all around the rim. The one Grandma used every single Sunday for strawberries.
Maisie wasn't supposed to touch it.
But it was so smooth. So cool and round. She just wanted to hold it. Just for one second.
She climbed up on her tippy-toes. She reached with both hands. She got it.
And then — her sock slipped.
CRACK.
The blue bowl hit the floor and broke into five pieces. Five big pieces with tiny white flowers that didn't go all the way around anything anymore.
Maisie's tummy went cold.
She stood very still. The kitchen was very quiet. Just the clock going tick, tick, tick.
She could hide it. She could put the pieces in the trash, way down deep where nobody looks. She could say she never saw it. She could say nothing at all.
Her hands were shaking.
She picked up the five pieces, very carefully, and she put them on the counter. She looked at them. One piece still had three little flowers. One piece had just half a flower, cut right down the middle.
Then she heard Grandma's slippers coming down the hall.
Shff. Shff. Shff.
Maisie's heart went fast. Her eyes got hot.
Grandma walked into the kitchen. She saw Maisie. She saw the five pieces on the counter. She stopped.
"Grandma," Maisie said. Her voice came out all wobbly. "I broke your blue bowl. The one with the flowers. I wasn't supposed to touch it and I touched it and my sock slipped and I broke it. I'm sorry."
Then she cried. Big, hiccuppy crying. The kind where your face gets all scrunched up and you can't really see.
Grandma didn't say anything at first.
She walked over to the counter. She touched one of the broken pieces with her finger, very gently, like she was saying goodbye to it. Her face was quiet.
Then she sat right down on the kitchen floor. Right on the cold tile. And she pulled Maisie into her lap.
"That bowl," Grandma said, "was my favorite."
Maisie cried harder.
"And you," Grandma said, squeezing her tight, "are my favorite-er."
Maisie tucked her face into Grandma's sweater. Grandma didn't even mind.
They sat on the kitchen floor for a long time. Grandma smelled like soap and toast. The clock kept going tick, tick, tick. Maisie's breathing got slow and steady again.
"Grandma?" Maisie whispered. "What are we gonna put the strawberries in on Sunday?"
Grandma looked at the five broken pieces on the counter. She squinted. She tilted her head. She picked up the piece with three flowers and turned it over in her hand.
"You know what?" Grandma said. "I've got some glue."
So they sat at the kitchen table together. Grandma squeezed the glue. Maisie held the pieces. They pressed them together, one by one, very carefully. Glue smooshed out through the cracks and made little white rivers between the flowers.
It took a long time. Maisie's fingers got sticky. Grandma's glasses kept sliding down her nose.
When they were done, they set the bowl on the table and looked at it.
It wasn't the same. You could see every crack. The white glue lines wiggled where the blue used to be smooth. One piece sat just a tiny bit crooked.
But it held together.
Grandma set it right back on the counter.
On Sunday, Maisie helped wash the strawberries. Grandma piled them high in the blue bowl — the one with the tiny white flowers, and the cracks, and the little white rivers running in between.
Maisie ate her strawberries slow that day.
They tasted the same as always.
