I’d lived with them for years, but now my time had come.
We met on their wedding day, when they welcomed me into their home with delighted faces and naive smiles.
I was by their side when they made their daughter’s first birthday cake. They ate most of it themselves, her small piece mashed into a pink paste by a chubby fist.
I was there when she lost her mother, capturing her tears.
But thirty years later I was now broken beyond repair, my pieces scattered across the cool tiles of the kitchen floor.
Oh, the things we’d made together.
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