The Weight of a Cup

The tea is hot. She warned me several times already.

“Blow on it first.”

She leans in, lips pursed, puffing air across the surface.

Steam rises toward my face as I lift the mug, my small, sticky fingers barely wrapping around the ceramic. The cup is heavy, teetering in my hands.

I take a sip.

The liquid stings my tongue. Bitter. Terrible. Nothing like chocolate milk or lemonade.

I insisted on trying it. I wanted to be like the grown-ups.

I frown. I push the mug away, making a face.

My mother laughs. “I told you tea is not for little ones.”

She prepares a straw for my apple juice. “Here, this is much sweeter.”

The grown-ups keep drinking, keep talking. Steam from the kettle rises between them, swirling their words, their laughter.

The sounds move through the room, with a lightness, wrapping around me like an invisible blanket.

I watch. I listen. And continue to sip from my juice box, swinging my legs under the table.

I do not drink the tea again.

Not yet.

_

I order tea because coffee makes my hands shake.

I regret it immediately.

She orders coffee with milk and three sugars. Confident. Certain.

I should have just said, “I’ll have the same thing.” But now there’s a pot of chamomile in front of me, and I feel ridiculous.

She removes her hat and tucks a stray strand behind her ear.

“You drink tea?”

I sit up straighter. My brain scrambles for an answer. Something that makes me sound pensive, mysterious, like the kind of guy who reads poetry and listens to jazz.

“Yeah,” I say. “I like the… depth of it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Depth?”

Damn it.

I lift the cup, trying to hide my face. I take a sip.

It burns.

My tongue, my throat—scalded and exposed, much like my attempt at being impressive.

The heat is not helping my nerves.

She smirks. She knows.

She tilts her head, studying me.

Then, just when I think she’s going to let me drown in this moment, she rescues me.

“May I try it?”

I push the steaming paper cup in her direction. She takes a sip, her expression shifting immediately.

She scrunches her nose. “Needs more sugar.”

She brushes my arm lightly, tosses a packet of honey back my way. I catch it.

It’s a small moment, but it stays with me.

The way she makes the world a little softer.

A little sweeter.

We both laugh and just like that, I exhale.

The tea is still hot, but I sip it anyway.

—

My eyes are heavy and bloodshot.

I haven’t slept. Not really.

Not in weeks.

I sit at the kitchen table, blinking at the wall, my hands wrapped around a chipped mug I keep forgetting to throw out.

The baby is asleep in the next room.

Finally.

I can still hear her even in silence, though—the gasping cries of a newborn who doesn’t yet know that nighttime is for sleeping.

My wife is resting. Also, asleep, but it’s borrowed sleep. A few stolen minutes before our daughter wakes again. My wife is drained in a way I would never understand. The way she finds the strength even in the exhaustion.

The tea is lukewarm at best. Maybe even cold.

I can’t remember if I sweetened it. It doesn’t matter. I’m running on empty.

There are two tiny socks on the table. Pink. Soft like a cloud. I can fit them in the palm of my hand.

How did we get here?

Two minutes ago, I was nineteen, in a cafe, fumbling through movie quotes I memorized, trying to make her laugh.

The baby monitor screams.

I sigh, closing my eyes. I take one last sip of my cold tea—savoring one last moment of quiet—before I push the chair back and stand.

—

She’s fourteen, and her eyes are red from crying.

The kitchen is dark, except for the glow beneath the stove. She sits at the table, hunched over, face in hands, wisps of hair falling across her cheeks.

I don’t pry for details. I already know.

Another heartbreak. This time, it was Marco.

I fill the kettle, set it on the stove. I reach for the old teapot, the one we’ve used for years.

“I don’t want any,” she mumbles, in between sniffles.

I pour the hot water over the leaves, watching the steam rise. The scent of jasmine drifts between us.

I set down a mug—the one with palm trees, the one that says Los Angeles on the side. From our road trip to California.

I don’t say anything. I just place it within reach. Close enough to take, far enough to refuse.

We sit in silence, the only sound is an occasional car passing by.

After a while, she reaches for the handle. The warmth seeps into her palms.

For a few minutes, we sit, barely exchanging glances or words.

Slowly, her shoulders drop, just a little.

She uses the back of her sleeve to wipe her eyes.

“It’s stupid,” she says. “It’s so stupid.”

I nod again. “Yeah. It is.”

I tried to think of what I’d want to hear. What I would’ve needed at fourteen.

But no words come to mind.

I want to fix it. Pull her out, throw her a life jacket. But I can’t.

She is growing up.

All you can do is be there. Sit with them in the hurt.

She leans back in the chair, the tension slowly leaving her shoulders, and for a moment, the silence between us is warm.

And we sit there, a father and daughter, sharing tea in the dark.

—

She is dressed in red.

The silk cloth is embroidered, stitched with golden threads that shimmer in the light as she moves. Red for happiness. Red for good luck. Red for love.

My wife and I sit in the wooden chairs, elegant and carved from mahogany. Seats of honor.

She kneels before us, her husband beside her. Hands steady as they lift the teapot together in a quiet harmony.

I watch her, and for a moment, she is every version of herself at once. Time bends. The memories sharpen, tuning in like an old antenna finally catching a lost frequency—clear, vivid, and impossibly real.

A baby in my arms. Warm, small, and nestled against my chest.

A little girl with braids, swinging high, laughing, fearless on the playground.

A graduate in a sea of caps, beaming and bright.

And now—a bride.

A woman.

The blue porcelain cups are small, delicate. Passed down from her grandmother, through hands that have carried love, loss, and all that lingers in between.

She offers the cup to me.

A gesture of honor. Of family. Of everything we do not have words for.

I take it with both hands, my fingers brushing the porcelain, my throat already tightening.

A red tea. For celebrations. Naturally sweet with hints of caramel. The sweetness lingers on my tongue.

The room is alive—full of people, of movement and excitement. A new life unfolding in front of us.

A warmth spreads throughout my body, like sunlight stretching over a lake, touching every inch.

And I do not have the words for what I feel.

So I just lift the cup again.

And I drink.

—

The kettle whistles.

I draw a deep breath, before turning around to face her. Today, I must stand tall.

The steam rises. We are out of tea. I pour water over the remaining, withering leaves. The flavor will be thin.

She sits at the table, hands resting in her lap. As she lifts the cup, her wedding ring flickers— catching the last light of the fading sun.

I feel like someone is sitting on my chest.

I see it in her eyes before she speaks. Unexpected news. Worse than we imagined.

I reach for her hand. She lets me. I squeeze it gently.

She swallows. Then, she smiles.

“I can barely taste the tea. It’s like old water.”

We laugh—a sound too light for the weight in the room. I want to keep it. Trap it somehow. Hold onto the music of our life before it fades.

We drink the tea anyway.

I stare out the window, counting the cups and mornings we have left.

I force myself to turn back to her—present, steady. Anchoring myself here, even as I feel myself sinking.

She is here. Drinking my terrible, watery tea. Holding my hand.

For now.

—

I still prepare enough water for two.

Out of routine. Out of hope. My brain and my heart refuse to learn how to make tea for one.

I drink it by the window, staring into the woods.

The chair across from me is empty. It has been empty for a long time.

Outside, a bluebird lands on the fence. Cerulean feathers against the morning light. It hops back and forth, restless. It finally settles. It’s song is soft, but certain.

I close my eyes.

And I see her. Rummaging through kitchen cabinets, searching for the honey jar.

Her voice drifts into the room, as if it never left.

“Add some sugar,” she always said.

I used to tease her for it. “Tea is not dessert.”

But today, I reach for the honey.

Just a drop.

I stir. I take a sip.

Her presence lingers, brushing me like a whisper. A love that holds steady, a warmth that stays with you—long after the sun has set.

The quiet holds her.

And so do I.

Outside, the bluebird flutters away.

And I sit.

And I drink.

And in this moment, I do not feel alone.