The Sound Of Breaking Plates

The Splintered Table

The Morrison family dinner was supposed to be a celebration. Lila, the youngest, had just been accepted into her dream college, and everyone gathered to toast her success. But as the roasted chicken cooled on the table, the atmosphere turned from jubilant to acrid.

It started innocently enough. Lila mentioned she was considering a major in art history, which led to her father, John, delivering one of his infamous lectures on “practical careers.”

“Art history, Lila? What are you going to do with that? Become a starving artist?”

“John,” her mother, Mary, cut in, her voice strained, “she just got accepted. Can we let her celebrate before you tear her down?”

“I’m not tearing her down; I’m being realistic,” John said, leaning back in his chair. “College is an investment, and art history isn’t exactly a return-on-investment degree.”

“You’re impossible,” Mary snapped. “Not everything has to be about money.”

“Of course you’d say that,” John shot back. “You’ve never had to worry about money because I’ve always made sure you didn’t have to.”

And just like that, the argument escalated. Lila, already tense from the scrutiny of her life choices, chimed in.

“Maybe if you supported me for once instead of trying to micromanage my future, I wouldn’t feel like such a failure!”

“You’re not a failure, sweetheart,” Mary said, shooting John a withering glare. “You’re just dealing with a father who thinks he knows everything.”

The eldest sibling, Nick, who had been silent until now, decided to pour gasoline on the fire.

“Honestly, Dad, you’ve done this to all of us. Remember when I wanted to study music? You made me feel like it was the dumbest idea in the world.”

“Because it was!” John barked. “And look at you now—working a stable job in finance, not living paycheck to paycheck in some dingy apartment with a guitar case!”

Nick’s face flushed. “You act like stability is the only thing that matters. Maybe I wanted to be happy, not just ‘stable.’”

Mary tried to calm things down, but her voice was lost in the rising storm of voices. Accusations flew across the table, dredging up old wounds and new insecurities. The chicken remained untouched, and the air grew thick with anger.

The Breaking Point

When Lila slammed her fist on the table, the sudden noise silenced everyone. “I’m so sick of this!” she yelled. “Every time we’re together, it’s the same thing. You all think you’re so much smarter than each other, but you’re just—just bullies! Can’t we have one night without tearing each other apart?”

The silence was deafening. For a moment, it seemed like her outburst might defuse the situation. Then John muttered under his breath, “If people would listen to reason, we wouldn’t have to argue.”

And just like that, the shouting resumed.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

An Unusual Guest

Everyone froze. Mary frowned, glancing at the clock. “Who could that be? It’s almost nine.”

“I’ll get it,” Nick offered, eager for a break from the chaos.

When he opened the door, he was met with an unexpected sight: an elderly man wearing a faded green coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He carried a worn leather bag slung over one shoulder and a small, mysterious box under his arm.

“Good evening,” the man said, his voice warm and raspy. “I couldn’t help but hear the… commotion. May I come in?”

Nick hesitated. “Uh, sorry, but—”

“I promise,” the man interrupted, stepping forward with surprising authority, “I can help.”

Before Nick could object, the stranger was in the dining room.

“Who is this?” John demanded, rising from his chair.

“A mediator,” the old man replied smoothly, setting his box on the table. “My name is Mr. Carrow. And you, my friends, are in dire need of my services.”

“We don’t need a mediator,” John said, his voice hard.

“You most certainly do,” Mr. Carrow countered, meeting John’s gaze without flinching. “Because if you don’t resolve this, this argument will fester. It will become something none of you can control.”

Mary gave him a wary look. “How would you know that?”

“Because I’ve seen it happen before.” Mr. Carrow opened his box, revealing a peculiar assortment of objects: a deck of cards, a shallow bowl, and a small, intricately carved hourglass. He set the hourglass on the table.

“Let’s play a game,” he said, his tone inviting yet firm. “It will help you see what’s really at stake.”

“This is ridiculous,” John muttered.

“Maybe,” Mr. Carrow said, “but it’s the only way to settle this without someone leaving in tears—or worse.”

The Game

Curiosity won out over resistance. The Morrisons reluctantly agreed to play.

Mr. Carrow shuffled the cards and dealt one to each family member. “These cards represent your perspectives,” he explained. “Your job is to argue your case—not for yourself, but for someone else at this table.”

John raised an eyebrow. “What does that accomplish?”

“It forces you to see through their eyes,” Mr. Carrow said.

The family exchanged uneasy glances but went along. John was assigned to argue for Lila, Lila for Nick, Nick for Mary, and Mary for John.

For the first time all evening, the tone of the conversation shifted.

John, after an awkward start, said, “Lila wants to study art history because… it’s her passion. And I suppose passion is important. If she doesn’t follow it now, she might regret it later.”

Lila stared at her father, surprised.

When it was her turn, she said, “Nick gave up music because he thought it was what Dad wanted. He was trying to make everyone else happy, even if it wasn’t what he wanted for himself.”

Nick looked down at the table, his anger softening.

As the game continued, the Morrisons began to listen—not just to the words, but to the emotions behind them.

The Lesson

When the hourglass ran out, Mr. Carrow clapped his hands. “And there you have it. You’ve seen your loved ones’ struggles through their own eyes.”

The family sat in silence, the weight of their words settling in.

“I didn’t realize…” John began, but his voice faltered. “I didn’t realize how much I’ve been pushing you, Lila. Or you, Nick.”

“And I didn’t realize how much you’ve sacrificed for us, John,” Mary added softly.

Lila sniffled, tears welling in her eyes. “I just want to feel like my choices matter.”

“They do,” John said, his voice firm but kind. “They really do.”

The Aftermath

Mr. Carrow packed up his things as the Morrisons began clearing the table, their conversation quieter, more understanding.

As he reached the door, Lila caught up to him. “How did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said with a wink. “You did it yourselves. Sometimes, all a family needs is a little nudge to remember why they’re a family in the first place.”

And with that, Mr. Carrow disappeared into the night, leaving the Morrisons to repair the splinters in their relationships—together.