Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29: THE CLAY BOWL
Emma realized she had spent ten years making herself small so other people could take up space.
In March, she signed up for a pottery class at the community center.
It was entirely for her. Not for Michael. Not for Oliver. Not to improve the aesthetics of the house.
Every Thursday evening, she went to a messy studio, put on an apron covered in dried slip, and put her hands into cold, wet clay.
Her first creation was a bowl.
It was not symmetrical. The glaze pooled thickly on one side and was too thin on the other. The rim was slightly wobbly. It was, by all objective standards, a terrible bowl.
She brought it home and placed it nervously on the kitchen island.
Michael came downstairs. He saw it.
He picked it up. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the uneven texture, tracing the wobbly rim.
He didn't ask what it was supposed to be. He didn't suggest she take a different hobby.
He opened the cabinet, took out the expensive, imported crystal fruit bowl Diane had given them for their wedding, and moved it to the top shelf where it couldn't be seen.
Then, he placed Emma's crooked clay bowl in the dead center of the island. He filled it with green apples.
May you like
"It's perfect," Michael said.
It sat there every day. A lopsided monument to a woman reclaiming the work of her own hands.
