Shattered Pieces of Happiness

“Where’s the damn drill?” I muttered, standing in my mother’s cluttered kitchen, surrounded by the lingering smell of burnt toast and lemon-scented cleaner. My phone buzzed again—Mom’s text, all caps: DON’T FORGET TO USE ANCHORS THIS TIME. The shelves you put up last year didn’t last, remember?

I tried to ignore the guilt, but it gnawed at me. It was a Saturday: I should’ve been at home with Jamie and the kids, but Mom’s voice—the way it shook when she called last night—made it impossible to say no. She never asked for much after Dad left, so when she did, I came running.

The shelf lay across the kitchen table, still in its plastic wrapping. But the drill? I combed through the cabinets, opening and slamming drawers, cursing under my breath. I could almost hear her voice: “You never put things back where they belong.”

Resigned, I headed for the attic. My shoes squeaked on the linoleum as I dragged a chair under the trapdoor and pulled myself up, the old wood groaning beneath my weight. The attic was packed with boxes labeled “Christmas,” “Dad’s Tools,” “Krzysztof’s School Stuff”—though no one called me that anymore. Just Chris now. Americanized. Easier for everyone.

I found the drill behind a stack of photo albums. As I reached for it, a dusty album spilled open. Photos tumbled out—smiling faces, birthday cakes, the faded image of my father holding me high above his head. The drill could wait. I thumbed through the photos, my throat tightening. We looked happy then—before the shouting, before the long silences.

A loud crash jolted me back. I scrambled down, heart pounding. The front door was ajar, banging in the wind. Mom’s purse was on the floor, its contents spilled out: lipstick, receipts, her pill bottle.

“Mom?” I called, panic rising. No answer. I snatched my phone and dialed her. Voicemail. Again and again. I told myself not to worry—maybe she’d gone next door or stepped outside—but the unease clawed at me. I called Jamie.

“Chris? Everything okay?” Jamie sounded tired—her voice always softened when she sensed my anxiety.

“I’m at Mom’s. She’s not here. Her purse is on the floor.”

A pause. “Did you check the backyard? Maybe she’s with Mrs. Miller.”

“Yeah. I’ll look.”

I hung up and stepped outside. The backyard was empty, the garden overgrown. I remembered helping Mom plant tomatoes here, years ago—when things were simpler, when Dad still came home for dinner, when my biggest worry was missing cartoons.

I found Mrs. Miller trimming her azaleas. “Morning, Chris! You’re early.”

“Have you seen my mom? She wasn’t home. Her purse—”

Mrs. Miller’s eyes widened. “She left about twenty minutes ago. Said she was going to the pharmacy. She seemed… upset. Is everything alright?”

I thanked her and drove to the pharmacy, rehearsing what I’d say if I found her, how I’d make everything okay. But she wasn’t there. I drove around, checking the park, the coffee shop, even Dad’s old house—a habit I never shook, even after he remarried. No sign of her.

By noon, I was back in the kitchen, staring at the untouched shelf. My phone rang. Mom’s number. Relief flooded me.

“Mom! Where are you?”

Her voice was thin. “I’m okay, honey. Just needed some air. I’ll be back soon.”

“You scared me—your purse, your pills—”

A long silence. “Chris… I’m tired.”

I wanted to scream, to demand she tell me what was wrong. But I remembered the photos—the laughter, the way she used to braid my hair. Instead, I whispered, “Come home. Please.”

When she returned, her eyes were red, her hands shaking. She barely glanced at the shelf. We sat at the kitchen table, the drill between us, like some sort of peace offering.

“I found the old photos,” I said.

She smiled, sad and small. “Your father loved taking pictures.”

“Why did you keep them? After everything?”

She shrugged. “You don’t throw away family. Even when it hurts.”

I wanted to ask about the pills, the nights I heard her crying, the way she’d drift through the house like a ghost. Instead, I reached for her hand. “Are you okay?”

Her lip trembled. “I’m trying. Some days I miss who we were. I miss your father. I miss you—before you grew up and left.”

I squeezed her hand, tears stinging my eyes. “I’m still here, Mom. I’m right here.”

We talked for hours—about Dad, about the empty nest, about how scared she was of growing old alone. I told her about Jamie, about the kids and work and how sometimes I felt I was failing everyone. We laughed. We cried. I hung the shelf, this time with anchors. We stood back and admired it—crooked, but sturdy.

That night, as I drove home, Jamie met me at the door. She wrapped her arms around me. “How’s your mom?”

“Better. I think she just needed someone to listen.”

Jamie nodded. “We all do.”

Later, as I tucked my kids into bed, I thought about the pieces of happiness we all cling to—the photos, the memories, the shelves that keep falling down. I realized that maybe, just maybe, happiness isn’t about having everything in place. Maybe it’s about forgiving the crooked parts, about coming home even when it hurts.

Do you ever wonder if the things we hold onto are the very things holding us back? Or are they the glue that keeps us together, even when life falls apart?