It’s Only a Bowl

 
It’s Only a Bowl

Hearing the crash, the mom ran into the kitchen and took in the scene.

The mess on the counter—an open cake mix box, two empty eggshells, a measuring cup on its side, leaking cooking oil

The floor—batter splattered, a green bowl shattered.

The empty spot on the shelf where her grandmother’s set of nesting bowls had once been displayed.

The mom breathed a prayer and heard the answer in her heart: “It’s only a bowl.”

She stepped toward her daughter.

Hands trembling and eyes brimming with tears, the girl stepped back.

In perfect rhythm, one step forward, one step back, until the girl had nowhere else to go. Words spilled out.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it.”

The mom spoke, low and slow.

“It’s very sweet that you wanted to surprise me with a cake. But you broke the only thing I have left of my grandmother’s. You can’t fix that. I can’t fix that. And yes, I’m mad—but more than that, I am so sad.”

The girl’s chin dropped to her chest; tears splashed onto the floor.

“Let me tell you what my grandmother taught me. ‘Things happen every day. In everything—good or bad—we get to choose how to respond.’”

“From now on, every time I walk into this kitchen and see that set with one bowl missing, not only will I think of Grandma, but I will also think of how special you are to me. And I will choose to remember—it’s only a bowl.”