Chapter 16
Meredith rebuilt some relationship with Iris.
Not mother.
Not stepmother.
Meredith.
That was enough.
She came every few months when Iris asked.
Never alone.
Never breakfast.
Her choice initially.
Later mine.
Spencer sent one birthday card from California.
I returned it unopened.
Iris did not know him well enough to need it.
No inherited guilt.
No inherited contact either.
Julia stayed.
Eventually she moved from nanny to household coordinator because Iris started school and no longer needed full-time care.
I worried she would refuse.
She accepted after negotiating better hours.
Good.
One evening she handed me an old saucer.
The matching piece to the one broken that morning.
I stared.
“Where?”
“Back cabinet.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
She shrugged.
“Your house.”
I almost threw it away.
Then Iris walked in.
“What that?”
“Old plate.”
She inspected it.
“Tea?”
“Yes.”
“Can paint?”
Of course.
We let her.
By the end, the white porcelain was covered in crooked flowers.
No text.
Just paint.
The saucer that once belonged to a controlled ritual became a five-year-old art project.
Better use.
I kept it on my desk for three days.
Then Iris took it back because apparently ownership remains fluid at five.
Fine.
Nothing needed to become a shrine.
May you like
That was another lesson.
Trauma objects do not deserve lifelong authority simply because adults remember what happened around them.
