Page 110 of Beyond Protection
"You're holding your breath and muscling through."
Mac exhaled hard—the clay split.
"Shit."
"Language."
She covered his hands with her own. "It happened because you're fighting it. Like this. Press. Feel where it wants to give."
Together, they worked it smooth.
"See? It remembers when you stop fighting."
Mac carried the clay to the wheel. Set it down off-center.
He pressed the pedal with his foot. The wheel began to spin. His hands pressed in and down.
The clay wobbled. Lurched.
"You're overthinking. Stop trying. Feel it instead."
His hands pressed harder. The clay jumped. Mac over-corrected.
The whole mass collapsed.
"Fuck." His hands shook. "I can't do this."
"You're doing fine."
"I'm failing. At the most basic—" His voice cracked. "You taught me this when I was eight."
"Cormac." Claire stepped up and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Look at me."
His eyes were wet.
"It's only clay. If it doesn't work, we start over. That's all."
"I don't know how to start over. I only know how to try to be perfect until it breaks."
We were all silent.
Claire stared at her son as if she were seeing him for the first time.
"I taught you that," she said finally. "When your father died, I needed control. So I taught you what my mother taught me. Discipline as devotion. Excellence as proof of worth." Her voice wavered. "I taught you wrong."
"You taught me what you knew."
"That doesn't make it right."
She moved to her own wheel. Selected a perfect bowl she'd thrown earlier. Precise symmetry. Elegant walls.
Then she picked up a wire tool and separated it from the bat. Next, she crushed it between her hands. The clay collapsed. She destroyed all that perfection in seconds.
Mac stared. "Mom—"
"It was perfect," Claire said calmly. "Perfect shape and ideal walls." She held the ruined clay. "And now it's not. And the world didn't end."
She looked at her son.
