Chapter 2

"Mom, why are you still hanging on to that busted old bowl?"

Her son Dennis Finch's voice came through the video call thick with impatience. The image bounced around, the background a lavishly furnished open-plan apartment — the new place Dennis had just bought in the state capital.

Crystal Chavez was crouched in the living room of the old apartment, packing. The whole complex was slated for demolition, so she had to get her things in order and find a rental to tide her over.

She held the little cup in her hand, wiping the dust off it with a rag. Thirty years on, it still looked the same, gray and dull, nothing much to look at.

"It's a keepsake." Crystal smiled at the phone screen. "That old beggar gave it to me back then. Said it would keep me safe."

"Oh, come on, Mom, at your age and you still believe that." Her daughter-in-law Lily Abbott's voice cut in, thin and sharp. "That bowl looks filthy, it's crawling with germs. Our new place is done in a European style. You put a piece of junk like that on the shelf, and when company comes over, they'll laugh at us."

Crystal's hand froze for a second, and the smile slipped off her face.

"Then I'll... I'll put it in the kitchen cabinet, I won't leave it out."

"It'd take up space in the cabinet too." Lily pursed her lips on the other end, peeling a tangerine in her hands. "Mom, I'm telling you, you're just too sentimental. All those old clothes, old shoes, and this busted bowl — if it should go, let it go. That's decluttering, get it? If you can't bear to throw stuff out, the movers are going to charge us extra."

"Exactly," Dennis chimed in. "Mom, listen to Lily. We've already bought all new dishes for the new place, all bone china, several thousand for a set. Just toss that old bowl in the trash and be done with it."

Crystal looked down at the bowl in her hand.

There was a yellowish-brown glaze on the sides that no amount of washing could take off. It wasn't much to look at, but it sat comfortably in the hand. Over the years she'd sometimes fed a stray cat out of it, sometimes kept pickles in it, and never once thought of it as dirty.

"All right, all right, I get it." Crystal sighed. "You two go on with your day, I'll keep packing."

After she hung up, Crystal sat in the cluttered living room, a heaviness pressing on her chest.

Her son had made something of himself, worked as a manager in the state capital, married a city girl, and only came back once or twice a year. With the demolition, he'd said he would take her to live in the state capital, and at first she'd been happy about it. But from the sound of things, if she went, she'd probably be just like this old bowl — out of place next to their "European style."

"Meow—"

The orange tabby she'd always fed, the one she called Big Yellow, rubbed against her pant leg.

Crystal set the bowl on the floor and poured a little cat food into it.

"Big Yellow, you're the only one who doesn't turn your nose up at it." She stroked the cat's head, talking to herself. "Everyone says it's junk, so I suppose it's junk. When moving day comes, if I really can't take it..."

She trailed off, then picked the bowl back up and wiped it with her apron. "Never mind, I'll bring it after all. I promised the old man I'd keep it. Be a shame to throw it out."