Page 35 of Breaking Through

When I returned home, the sun had fully risen. Grandpa sat in his chair, crossword puzzle untouched in his lap. The oxygen machine hummed its steady rhythm while he studied me as I walked up to him.

"You look like you've been through a war."

I sank into Gran's old wingback chair, the velvet worn smooth by decades of use. "I messed up, Grandpa."

"Tell me."

"I went to Wade's with one of Gran's journals." The admission was raw in the back of my throat. "I thought... God, I don't know what I thought. That I could somehow fix everything with her art therapy notes? That I could... erase his pain with the right technique?"

"Ah." He set aside his crossword. "Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to help your grandmother organize her studio?"

I shook my head.

"It was right after we got married. She had all those art supplies everywhere—paints, brushes, half-finished projects. It drove my methodical teacher's brain crazy." He chuckled softly. "So one day, while she was at the gallery, I spent hours organizing everything. I created color-coded labels, special containers, and a whole system for keeping track of her works in progress."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing, at first. She stood silent in the doorway, staring at all my helpful improvements. Then, she started crying."

My chest tightened. "Why?"

"Because I'd tried to impose order on her creative chaos. I'd seen what I thought was a problem and tried to fix it without understanding that her 'mess' was a vital part of her process." He adjusted his oxygen tube. "It took me years to realize that sometimes when we try to fix things, we're really trying to make them fit our understanding of how they should be."

"Like Mom and Dad with the facility."

"Like all of us who love too eagerly." His voice was gentle. "We see someone's pain or struggle and think, 'If I do this one thing, make this one change, find this one solution...' Unfortunately, healing isn't linear. It's more like Belle's artistic process—messy and unpredictable."

I thought about Wade's face when I'd shown up with the journal. "He said he needed me to let him be broken sometimes."

"Smart man." Grandpa leaned forward, his breathing slightly labored but his eyes clear. "You know what else your grandmother taught me? Art isn't about perfection. It's about truth. Sometimes the most powerful pieces are the ones that show how fragile they are."

"Like kintsugi," I murmured, remembering one of Gran's favorite art forms. "The Japanese practice of mending broken pottery with gold."

"Exactly. The breaks become part of what makes the object gorgeous." He reached for my hand. "But here's the thing about kintsugi—you can't rush it. Each layer needs time to set and become strong. Try to hurry the process, and the gold doesn't hold."

"I wanted so badly to help him." My voice cracked. "To make it better."

"Of course you did. You're a fixer, Match. Like your mother and like me. We see problems and want solutions." His fingers tightened on mine. "But sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is witness someone's journey without trying to direct it."

"How do you do that? Sit with someone's pain?"

"Practice. Patience. A lot of biting your tongue when solutions pop into your head." He smiled softly. "And remembering that love isn't about fixing someone. It's about creating a safe space where they can heal in their own way and at their own pace."

I thought about Wade's request—sitting with him and letting the silence be enough. "It's harder than fixing things."

"Much harder, but, ultimately, more lasting and more meaningful." He settled back in his chair, suddenly looking tired. "You know why I won't go to that facility?"

"Because it's not home?"

"Because there, I'd just be a collection of problems to solve. Oxygen levels, medication schedules, therapy goals." He gestured at the room around us, at Gran's paintings on the walls and her wind chimes singing softly outside. "Here, I get to be human. I can be messy, complicated, and sometimes struggle, but I can still be me."

The parallel hit me hard. "Like Wade with his scars."

"We all have scars, Match. Some are just more visible than others." He tapped his oxygen tube. "The trick isn't fixing them. It's learning to live with them and maybe even appreciate how they've shaped us."

I spoke slowly. "I think I need to learn to love more like Gran did."

"How's that?"

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