Of teacups and Family Secrets

The set of teacups is one of the family’s most treasured heirloom. These little cups are made of the finest china, painted with careful, intricate cherry blossoms. They sit delicately and importantly on the antique mahogany shelf in the dining, right beside the china plate from 1600s. They were gifts for Mama Diana, the family matriarch on her wedding day. From a duchess. No less.

They had been in the family for years, passed along the eldest daughter to the eldest daughter with the ancestral house that had once been featured in a famous magazine. The teacups are as part of  the family history as the long, winding staircase and the portraits of ancestors lining the dark corridor.

That afternoon, there is a party. A birthday. The cake is being shared on the living room. In the dining, Anna is on her tiptoes, reaching for the present she’s carefully hidden behind the antique plate. Her fingers caught the ribbons and she pulled carefully, mindful of all the priceless, fragile things on the shelf. Half of the blue-wrapped package  peeked from it’s hiding and excitedly, Anna reached for it with her other hand. She’s been too wary with the plate’s shiny face that she didn’t notice the ruffles on her sleeve brushing one of the teacups. A crash followed, luckily disguised by a loud guffaw from the dining.

Anna stared at the white pieces scattered on her feet, her heart pounding. She heard her name spoken as in a question from the next room. This spurred her into action. Every incriminating piece is swept and dusted away. Every trace of white powder on the carpet dusted. All the while, a plan is forming on a frantic mind. There’s a china shop downtown. She went there once, with a friend and said friends older sister. The… she forgot the name already. But she remembered her friend’s sister saying the shop specializes in imitation. “The best there is.” There’s an awning in front, and an old sign hanging in a shape of a teacup, and an assortment of vases displayed on the window. She’ll be able to  find it.  Tomorrow, before anyone else could rise, she’d be gone and back. And no one need ever know.

The next morning when Aunt Margo went downstairs to count the teacups as she always does before tea, there are seven teacups as always. Seven. she thought, just as she does each time, a very lucky number. Aunt Margo’s superstition is one of the inside jokes of the younger members of the family, Anna included.

So there’s the complete set of teacups. There’s the satisfied smile on Aunt Margo’s face. And there’s also a smile on Anna’s face as she duck down back under her duvet, yawning. But there’s the one teacup in the set, painfully aware of being not the teacup, of not belonging, of being a fraud, of the slight bump on its bottom, of the uneven thickness on its rim, of one fault on one of its blossom.

It sit tightly by itself, just a half millimeter away from the original teacups which are huddled close together. Nothing to a human observer, but a world to objects we thought inanimate.

That evening, there’s another party. This time, an engagement. Anna’s beautiful cousin, Aunt Margo’s youngest to a dashing foreigner she met on a cruise last year.The whole family gathered to welcome the fiancee and the fiancee’s best friend who is to be the best man on the coming wedding. In the living room, slices of cakes and disagreements are being shared. In thedining, where the couple has sneaked unnoticed, Isabelle is pressed against the shelf by her fiancee’s friend. He’s kissing her neck and undoing the buttons on her blouse when they heard a crash.

They both stopped and looked down. A teacup lay on the floor, perfectly sliced in two.

“Uh..oh”The fiancee’s best friend muttered under his breath.

“Don’t worry,”Isabelle said, slightly annoyed.”I’d take care of it.”

So the next morning, when Aunt Margo came down for her morning routine of counting, she again found seven reassuring teacups sitting on their place. Again, Aunt Margo smiled. No one knew but years ago, while cleaning, she accidentally knocked off one of the precious teacups and bought an imitation to replace it. She had not told anyone, just like how she hadn’t told about Isabelle’s real father. Now she makes sure her mistakes are not repeated. Not with the teacups. Certainly not with her daughter.

When Aunt Margo turned her back, two teacups looked awkwardly at each other. Understanding dawned and the discomfort is replaced with awe. They look at the rest of the teacups on the set , all which nodded imperceptibly and smiled mysteriously to themselves.

Everything is fragile, they seem to say, and so nothing ever changes… or stays the same.