I was six when I was given my first teacup, one painted with swirling vines and delicate roses entwined. My grandmother gave it to me because I had become old enough for tea by then. Not a strong builder’s brew or exotic Assam, but a milky sweet barely there tea that gets stronger as you get older. Over the years the cup would get tiny chips around the rim that bit into my lip when I sipped. I couldn’t use any other cup though because they weren’t mine.
When my parents divorced my father moved out and I took my cup with me to visit him. He had a salmon pink cup with a leaping rabbit on the front waiting for me. I wouldn’t use it. One day I noticed a hairline crack cut through the middle of a large crimson rose and I had to become more careful, not letting anyone else touch it. I never let the by then black tea stain the soft off-white china, I knew how to take care of my cup. Then I only drank tea and he only drank cheap white wine, from the bottle. I’d sit cross legged in my armchair and clasp my hands around my cup; it kept me warm when he hadn’t turned the heating on. He’d sit in his armchair; it was larger and more spoilt than mine, as it had cigarette burn polka dots on it. Sometimes when he was out I would sit in his armchair and pretend I was him. I’d put a pencil in my mouth and pretend to smoke. When I heard the key turn I would rush back to my place.
Then he smashed my cup and I swept it up in tears. He threw it against the wall and the shards sprinkled down like snowflakes.
