She is relieved. She has been waiting for this day forever. She is so tired of resting on the shadowy shelf in the back of the cabinet, waiting to be chosen. She holds her breath each morning when the teapot begins to whistle and smoke and every morning, she’s pushed further back into the cabinet’s recesses. Red mugs are chosen. Witty, political mugs. Mugs from trendy coffee shops. And every single goddamned morning she’s rotated further out of rotation. One night Kate is unloading the dishwasher, and she’s shifted left to right and then front to back to make room for someone else. She’s knocked out of the cabinet. She bounces on the green laminate countertop before landing on the linoleum floor with a small but spectacular crash. She splinters into 127 pieces in the air. She yells and kicks the hell out of her feet for a glorious half second. When she is swept into a blue dustpan with a rubber lip, she is smiling. She doesn’t feel broken. She always knew she had exactly 127 pieces anyway, and now she can tend to the shards instead of holding her spine in a straight ladder every second of the day, waiting for something that was never coming in the first place.