The only lengthy time I spent with my mom was in the kitchen doing dishes.
Here, until she left, was our confessional. We talked about our day and my school and what dad did or didn't do. Most days I listened, drying dishes as she scrubbed wet egg lace off an iron pan.
Once, I dropped a mug and it split, both halves still fit together but she pointed to the house trash:
"You can't fix things that are broken."
And I believed her.