Andrew had seen Tina throw tantrums before—mini storms that came out of nowhere, all sugar and thunder and the occasional stuffed toy flying across the room. But this morning was different. This morning, Tina sat at the dining table with her bottom lip jutting out, staring at what could only be described as a crime scene, her beloved kitten mug in two pathetic pieces. Andrew stood in the doorway, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and blinked at the sight.
"...Did someone die, or is it just your coffee mug?"
Tina didn't even look up. Her fingers traced the jagged line where porcelain had split, her expression unusually solemn.
"It's not just a mug, Andy."
She whispered.
"It was Mr. Whiskers."
Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Of course you named the mug."
"It had ears."
She shot back immediately, lifting the broken handle for emphasis.
"Look at it. Tiny, perfect ears. I can't drink coffee without Mr. Whiskers. He was family."
