The Broken Plate

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Every Sunday, Tomás, who was eight years old, had lunch at his grandmother's house. Before lunch, he always helped her set the table. That Sunday, there was soup, rice, and chicken, and there was also the blue plate.

The blue plate was special. It had little white flowers around the edge, and Grandmother only used it for bread. She washed it by hand, slowly, and she put it back on its shelf after every lunch. "This plate was my mother's," she always said. "Be careful."

Tomás was careful, but the plate was wet. It slipped from his fingers and fell on the kitchen floor with a terrible crash. It broke into five pieces. Tomás stood completely still, listening. Grandmother was in the garden, and the radio was on. She had not heard.

Quickly, he picked up the pieces and put them in the pocket of his jacket. He took another plate for the bread and put it in the middle of the table. Nobody noticed anything.

At lunch, Tomás was not hungry. He looked at his soup and he said "yes" and "no" too quickly. Every time he moved, the pieces in his pocket made a small noise: clink, clink. Grandmother looked at him with her kind, quiet eyes. "Tomás," she said at last, "where is the blue plate?"

Tomás felt his face turn red. He took out the five pieces and put them on the table. "I'm sorry, Grandmother," he said, and he began to cry. "It was an accident. I was going to tell you, but I was afraid."

Grandmother did not say anything. She stood up, opened a cupboard, and took out a plate. It was white, and it had thick lines of glue all around it, like a map. "When I was seven," she said, "I broke this one. I hid the pieces in my apron for a whole day. My mother found out, and she glued it herself. We have used it for bread ever since." She smiled. "Broken plates are very common in this family."

That afternoon, they glued the blue plate together at the kitchen table, piece by piece. Next Sunday, there will be two plates for the bread.