The vase fell at 6:42 p.m.
It slipped from Eli's hands while he was dusting the shelf. The glass hit the floor and split into sharp pieces. Water spread across the tiles. One white flower bent sideways.
Eli stood still.
Footsteps came from the hallway.
"What was that?" his mother asked.
He did not answer fast enough.
She entered the living room and stopped. Her eyes went from the broken vase to the floor, then to him.
"Do you know how much that cost?" she said.
"I was cleaning," Eli said. "I didn't mean—"
"Did I ask what you meant?" she said.
He bent down and reached for a piece of glass.
"Don't touch that!" she shouted.
He pulled his hand back.
"That vase was from before," she said. "Before everything became like this."
"I can clean it," he said. "I'll fix it."
"You can't fix everything," she said. "You never could."
She picked up her bag and dropped it on the chair. Her phone slipped out and hit the table.
"I told you not to touch my things," she said.
"You weren't home," Eli said.
"That doesn't give you permission," she replied. "Nothing gives you permission."
He stepped back.
She kicked one of the glass pieces aside with her shoe.
"Do you know what my life was like before you?" she said.
Eli shook his head.
"I was happy," she said. "I had dreams. I slept. I laughed."
She pointed at the floor.
"And then you came."
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"My happiness left the day you were born," she said. "Everything I had disappeared."
She raised her voice.
"Your father left because of you. You ruined everything."
Eli stood against the wall.
"I didn't ask to be here," she continued. "I didn't choose this life."
She grabbed a cloth from the kitchen and wiped at the water on the floor, pressing hard.
"Every day I look at you," she said, "and I remember what I lost."
She straightened and looked at him.
"Go to your room," she said. "Don't come out."
He turned and walked down the hallway. He closed his door without sound.
Inside, he sat on the bed. His backpack leaned against the desk. The zipper was half open.
He reached inside and touched the envelope. He did not take it out.
Later, the vacuum ran in the living room. The sound stopped. A cupboard slammed. The front door opened and closed.
Eli remained where he was.
That night, he wrote one sentence in his notebook. He did not erase it.
The next morning, he left the apartment early. He did not eat breakfast. He did not look back at the shelf where the vase had been.
At school, Ms. Hale called his name during attendance.
"Here," he said.
She paused, then continued down the list.
At lunch, the Peewees played near the fence. Eli sat where the shadow from the building reached the ground.
When the bell rang, he stood up and walked back inside.