“That does not compete with loving you.”
“You are my daughter.”
“You don't have to earn permanence.”
My throat tightened.
He continued:
“And loving someone does not mean I let them hurt you.”
“What happens now?”
“I don't know.”
That frightened me.
Adults were supposed to know.
Then he said:
“But I promise I won't decide by pretending today didn't happen.”
That was better than certainty.
The next morning, Grandma called someone.
An art conservator.
Of course Grandma Pearl knew an art conservator.
Her friend from church had a daughter who repaired stained glass and ceramics.
Her name was Dr. Helen Wu.
She came to our house on December twenty-third carrying foam boxes, tweezers, magnifying lenses and the confidence of a surgeon.
She examined Mom’s broken ornaments.
“Glass is difficult.”
I knew.
“Can you fix any?”
“Some.”
“Will they look normal?”
“No.”
My heart dropped.
Helen looked at me.
“Do you want normal or repaired?”
I frowned.
“Aren't they same?”
“No.”
She held up the red cardinal.
“A repair can remain visible.”
“That doesn't make it unsuccessful.”
I stared.
Grandma Pearl smiled faintly.
Helen continued:
“There is a Japanese tradition called kintsugi.”
“I know it’s more associated with pottery than glass.”
“But the idea is useful.”
“Repair does not always need to pretend the break never happened.”
I looked at the blue heart.
“Can you fix this one?”
She examined.
“Maybe.”
“Not to hang.”
“Too fragile.”
“But we can mount the pieces together.”
“Like frame?”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“Do that.”
We saved twelve ornaments.
Nine were beyond repair.
We kept pieces anyway.
Grandma suggested turning them into mosaic.
I did not want that yet.
She respected it.
Christmas Eve arrived with almost no decorations downstairs.
Renee’s perfect tree remained standing.
I hated it.
That was unfair to tree.
Still.
Dad noticed.
“You want it down?”
“Yes.”
He unplugged it.
We carried it into garage.
Not destroyed.
Not thrown.
Stored.
Then we stood our old tree back up.
The base was bent.
Dad repaired it.
We hung unbroken ornaments.
There were gaps.