The impact ran through my legs and locked me in place behind the counter of Juniper & Gold. A Murano vase—my Murano vase, carried home from Italy three years earlier—lay in pieces at my feet.
“Oh dear,” the woman said lazily, never lifting her eyes from her phone. “Owen, sweetheart, be careful. That looked pricey.”
Pricey didn’t begin to cover it. That vase was twelve hundred dollars. It was the centerpiece of my store. It was my electric bill.
“Ma’am,” I managed, gripping the counter, “that was worth over a thousand dollars.”
She finally glanced up. Perfect hair, designer sunglasses, effortless cruelty. She sighed like I’d inconvenienced her.
“I’m sure you’re insured,” she said. “Besides, fragile things shouldn’t be where kids can reach them.”
“It was on a pedestal,” I said, shaking.
She was already back on the phone.
I looked at the boy. Owen—seven years old, dressed neatly, standing over the shards without emotion. Not scared. Not guilty. Just… hollow.
“Owen, step back,” I said gently. “You could get hurt.”
“Sit down and use the tablet,” the woman snapped, still talking into her phone. “Mommy’s busy.”
Owen didn’t move.