Novel & Cerita Shattered Glass How I Met Your Mother

Maxwell POV The sound of glass shattering barely made me blink. My mother stood across the room, chest heaving, her perfectly manicured fingers trembling as the crystal tumbler hit the marble floor and exploded into shards. Whiskey streaked across the tiles like spilled gold, stark against the cold white. “Are you going to say something?” Rebecca hissed. “Anything?” I didn’t answer. I just watched her, my hands tucked into the pockets of my slacks, my expression steady. Too steady for her liking.

Crash! I didn’t even know when the frame had left my hands and fallen to the floor, the glass crashing and leaving glasses in its wake like star shards over the floor. "No, that can’t be," I muttered, holding back my tears as I took in a shuddering breath to push out the tension that had gathered in my body. I bent down immediately to pick up what I had broken; I didn’t even think to be careful that one of the shards might cut me. My mind was already jumbled up with a memory of Killian’s mom, but how?

“Get me everything about them—both of them—immediately.” The assistant nodded and left, but I didn’t move. My living room felt suffocating, the walls closing in, the air heavy as if the room itself mourned with me. I found my gaze falling on the crystal glasses lined neatly on the table. Without realizing it, I had lifted one and smashed it against the floor. The shattering sound echoed through the room, but it did nothing to ease the unbearable ache in my chest. Amara. My Amara.

Good. She came down quietly, not saying a word, and walked to the kitchen. I leaned against the wall and watched her. She poured the water, walked toward me slowly, and reached out the glass. Just as I stretched out my hand to take it, the glass slipped and shattered on the floor. The sound echoed through the house. I lost it. “Oh, you foolish woman!” I shouted, stepping forward. “You can’t even get a simple glass of water right!” She bent down to pick up the broken pieces. And just as she reached for one shard—

He was everything I needed- ruthless, completely unhinged. Then, we heard a glass shatter on the floor, making us jerk as we both looked to the source of the sound. And there she stood. My mother.

I had my own agenda doing this. Even if they didn't realize it, seeing that couple hold their toddler and thank me brought tears to my eyes. I knew all too well how a physical flaw could ruin a child's life. I shut off my phone, and for the first time in a long time, a flicker of genuine joy sparked in my chest. A second later, a deafening crash echoed from the living room. Then came a scream. It was Mom. I hurried downstairs to find her standing over a heap of shattered mirror glass, her face deathly pale.

“You’re shaking.” I exhaled slowly. “No. I’m thinking.” “Thinking looks a lot like losing your mind.” I ignored him, grabbed my phone, and barked, “Damon. Upstairs. Now.” Within minutes Damon walked in, hair still damp from a shower, shirt unbuttoned. He took one look at my face and frowned. “What happened?” I pointed at the shattered glass on the floor. “Adrien happened.” His brows snapped together. “What?” Matteo gestured toward the TV. “He’s alive.”

But I tuck my chin as my elbow connects with her stomach as I flip her over onto the coffee table in the middle of the room. Glass shatters everywhere, tiny shards digging themselves into the carpet while my mother groans, rolling onto her side in an attempt to stand. Her arms and face bleeding from the glass cutting her up. Charity and I stood above her, our stances locked, preparing her to become more feral with each injury.

I was the one who harmed myself. As I watched my parents' hunched silhouettes supporting each other while walking away from us, I felt nothing but hatred. I hated Kevin and Daniel, but I hated myself more. Meanwhile, Kevin just closed the door. He thought for a moment, his brows already knitted into a frown. Finally, he called me. As usual, the call didn't go through. So, Kevin directed his voice message to the automated message inbox. "Michelle, can you stop throwing your damn tantrum? Your parents are already this old, yet they have to spend their days worrying about you! Do you even have a conscience?"

And I was just standing in the middle of my room, breathing hard, with broken glass at my feet. The door was still open. And my mother walked in slowly, like she was stepping on glass. “What is it?” she said gently. “What happened? Talk to me.” I didn’t speak. My father came closer, tried to hold my shoulder. I stepped back immediately. “I said, nothing,” I muttered. She looked around the room—the broken lamp, the torn shirt, my face. “You’re shattering things. Everything. What’s the problem, son? Just talk to me.”