I leaned against the doorframe and closed my eyes.
Okay, I told myself. Okay. Holes in the walls. Faucets. It’s bad. But it’s fixable. Walls can be patched. Water bills can be paid. It’s just stuff. It’s just a house.
I took a deep breath.
Then I went back downstairs.
And that’s when I saw something glittering on the living room floor.
For one confused second, I thought a window had broken.
Little pieces of light were scattered across the hardwood near the far wall, catching the afternoon sun coming in through the blinds. Sparkling. Almost pretty.
Then I got closer, and I stopped.
My grandmother’s antique mirror lay smashed across the floor.
“No.”
I dropped to my knees beside it.
The dark wooden frame had split at one corner, right where two of the carved pieces met. The glass had shattered into dozens of pieces, some as big as my hand, some as small as grains of sugar. They were spread out in a wide circle, like it hadn’t fallen.
