My mother-in-law blocked the entrance to my new apartment and screamed that her son had bought it for her, ordering me to leave.

holding a mug that had once belonged to my grandmother.

My grandmother’s mug.

White ceramic. Blue violets. A tiny chip on the handle from when I dropped it at twelve years old and cried because I thought I had ruined something precious. Grandma Ruth had laughed, glued the crack, and told me, “Pretty things with chips still hold coffee, Nora. Don’t let continue reading …