There was a face, I think it was his, smeared across the canvas, but fused together with golden veins.
Kintsugi.
He didn’t know that word, I was sure of it. But he was familiar with the feeling.
‘Whoever did this… they really saw something,’ whispered the woman next to me.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt my chest swell — not with fear or fatigue, but with pride.
It was my son. I turned and saw him peeking out from behind the bookcase. Our eyes met. He looked as if he was about to run away.
I smiled, keeping my eyes on him.
‘Well done, baby,’ I murmured.
And he slowly smiled back.
That year, my birthday fell on a Sunday. I wasn’t expecting anything, just a quiet day, maybe a nap, if the universe was kind.
But when I walked into the kitchen, Malik was already waiting for me.
He stood proudly next to a small chocolate cake, tilted slightly to the left, the icing uneven and dripping down one side. On the table in a jar was a bouquet of wildflowers, wild in the truest sense of the word, a chaotic bouquet of colours.
And next to it was a tiny gift bag.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ he said, looking at me with hope and nervousness.
I pressed my hand to my mouth.
‘Mrs. Hutchins helped with the cake,’ he said quickly. ‘And I picked the flowers myself, from the field behind the property.’
I slowly approached the table, as if the moment would be interrupted if I moved too quickly.
‘And this?’ I asked, picking up the bag.
‘Open it,’ he said.
Inside were a pair of boho-style earrings with brass hoops and moonstones. My favourite kind. Somehow he had noticed. Somehow he had remembered.
I put them on right there, and tears welled up in my eyes again.
‘Do you like them?’ he asked, his voice soft.
I reached out and hugged him.
‘I love them,’ I said. ‘But not as much as I love you.’