I knew that I would never have my mother back, not in the way I had known her all my life. When you have seen your mother shattered, there's no putting her back together There will always be seams, chipped edges, and clumps of dried glue. Even if you could get her to where she looks the same, she will never be stronger than the cracked plate.
And I would ask, are not we all cracked plates? Aren't our hard earned imperfections what make us unique? Isn't there beauty in broken things? That we can be put back together despite our flaws... isn't that proof of our incredible strength and resilience? Isn't survival a badge of courage to be admired? I choose to believe so.