I thought of the girl who I believed to be a burden. The one who was a disappointment, a waste. One who was small, insignificant, a failure. I stared at the broken plates, feeling a lot like that. Like someone had taken me and carelessly tossed me around, not second-guessing their actions. But the more plates I shattered, I thought of what Wren had said at the diner. How the right people would sit with me as I sorted through the pieces. These plates were broken—but they weren’t unfixable. They were resilient. And maybe I was too.
