Page 135 of Beyond Protection
The vessel sat in her palms, approximately eight inches tall. Gold lacquer traced through the cracks where she'd pieced the shards back together, the repairs visible and deliberate.
The bowl was more beautiful for being broken.
Mac stared at it. His throat worked. "You fixed it."
"No." Claire's voice was gentle. "I joined it. There's a difference. The cracks are still there. They're just not separations anymore."
She crossed to him. Held out the bowl. He took it like she was handing him something alive—careful, reverent, his fingers touched the gold seams.
"This bowl survived the kiln," Claire said quietly. "You'll survive this."
Claire turned to me. "Eamon, walk with me?"
I glanced at Mac. He nodded.
I followed Claire through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. The rain had softened to mist.
Claire didn't sit. She stood looking at the backyard.
"Mac tells me you're going tonight," she said.
"Yes."
"And that you're scared."
I blinked. "He told you—"
"He didn't have to. I can see it." She glanced at me. "You're terrified something will go wrong."
There was no point denying it. "Yes."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Fear means you understand the stakes. Means you care about coming back." She turned to face me fully. "My son has spent most of his life learning to hide what he feels. Learning that vulnerability is weakness. That love requires perfection. I taught him that. Not intentionally—but I taught him nonetheless."
The admission was raw.
"You're teaching him differently," Claire continued. "Teaching him that he doesn't have to be perfect to be worth protecting. That falling apart doesn't mean shattering."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"The bowl I gave him—I didn't fix it. I can't undo the collapse." Her voice remained calm. "But I can show him that you can make broken things whole again. The repair doesn't erase the damage—it transforms it into something new. Something that remembers what it survived."
I rested a hand on the porch rail.
"He needs someone who sees the cracks and doesn't demand he hide them," Claire said. "Someone who understands that protection isn't about preventing damage—it's about being there after the damage happens."
"I'm trying," I said quietly.
"I know." She reached out. Her hand settled on my forearm—brief contact, but deliberate. "Take care of yourself tonight. Come home. And when you do, keep teaching my son what I couldn't. That showing up fractured is enough."
"I will," I said. "I promise."
"Good." She released my arm. Stepped back. "I should go help my sister-in-law."
She went inside before I could respond.
