Thabo the Creator

Chapter Five

The Wisdom in the Corners

Tyler Morgan dropped his duffel bag on the hardwood floor of his parents' sprawling Victorian home, the sound echoing through empty rooms. At twenty-three, he hadn't planned on moving back after college, but life had other ideas. A collapsed job offer, mounting student debt, and nowhere else to go had brought him reluctantly back to his childhood home.

"Hello?" His voice bounced off the walls. His parents were away—again—this time on a six-month sabbatical through Southeast Asia. "Just until you find your footing," his mother had said, pressing the house key into his palm before departing.

A clattering sound from the kitchen made him freeze. He'd forgotten about Mrs. Abernathy, the housekeeper who had worked for his family since before he was born. His mother had mentioned she still came three times a week.

Following the noise, he found her—small but sturdy, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, vigorously scrubbing at a stubborn pot.

"Mrs. Abernathy?"

She startled, then broke into a warm smile. "Tyler Morgan! Look at you—all grown up and still sneaking around like you did when you were stealing cookies."

He laughed nervously. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Nothing scares me anymore at seventy-two, dear. Except maybe those reality TV shows your mother watches." She dried her hands on her apron. "Your parents said you might be staying a while."

"Yeah." He shifted uncomfortably. "Just until I figure things out."

She nodded, asking no questions, demanding no explanations. "Well, I'm here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Try not to make too much mess on the other days."

Over the next few weeks, Tyler spent his days sending out resumes, facing rejection emails, and trying to ignore the growing pit of anxiety in his stomach. He barely noticed Mrs. Abernathy moving quietly through the house, until one Wednesday when he accidentally knocked over his mother's favorite vase while pacing during a phone interview.

He was still staring at the shattered pieces when Mrs. Abernathy appeared with a dustpan.

"I'll replace it," he said quickly. "Mom's going to kill me."

"Hmm." She knelt down beside him, her knees cracking slightly. "This was a gift from your grandfather to your grandmother on their wedding day. Some things can't be replaced, but most things can be repaired."

Later that afternoon, he found her at the kitchen table with the vase pieces arranged like a puzzle, carefully applying a clear adhesive.

"Kintsugi," she explained. "It's a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. I'm using clear glue since I don't have gold, but the principle is the same. The breaks become part of the object's history, not something to hide."

Tyler sat across from her, watching her weathered hands work with surprising dexterity. "How do you know about this stuff?"

"I wasn't always a housekeeper," she said simply. "I taught art history for thirty years before retiring. Then my husband died, my pension wasn't enough, and here we are."

"I didn't know..."

"Of course not. People rarely ask the woman who cleans their toilet about her previous career." There was no bitterness in her voice, just matter-of-fact observation.

Embarrassed, Tyler began asking questions. Over the repaired vase, Mrs. Abernathy—"Call me Eleanor when we're not dusting"—told him about her years teaching at a small college, her late husband who had been a jazz musician, and their travels through Europe and Asia.

When Tyler confessed his fear of failure and uncertainty about his future, Eleanor laughed—not unkindly. "At your age, I was certain I'd be a famous painter. Life had other plans. Sometimes the detours are where you find what you're really meant to do."

Their Wednesday conversations became a ritual. Eleanor would bring unusual teas she found at international markets, and Tyler would help with the heavier cleaning while they talked. He learned she spoke three languages, had once hitchhiked across Canada, and kept a small studio apartment filled with books and her late husband's record collection.

"Why do you still clean houses?" he asked one day as they washed windows together.

"The pension helps me survive, but this lets me live," she said. "I can travel a little, buy art supplies, help my granddaughter with college. Besides, I like the work—it's honest, and I get to think while I clean. Some of my best ideas come while scrubbing floors."

When Tyler finally landed a job interview at a small marketing firm, it was Eleanor who ironed his shirt, adjusted his tie, and gave him a pep talk that was more effective than anything his parents had ever said.

"They'd be lucky to have you," she told him. "And if they don't see that, they're not worth your talent."

He got the job, but instead of moving out immediately, Tyler stayed on. Friday evenings, he'd cook dinner for them both—skills Eleanor had patiently taught him after discovering he could barely boil water. She introduced him to foods from her travels, correcting his technique and teaching him to taste as he went.

When his parents returned from their sabbatical, they were surprised to find their son and their housekeeper sitting at the kitchen table, laughing over a game of chess.

"Mrs. Abernathy has been keeping you company?" his mother asked later, confused by the friendship.

"Eleanor," Tyler corrected, "has been teaching me about art, cooking, and how to put life's broken pieces back together. And chess—though I still can't beat her."

Before moving to his own apartment, Tyler helped Eleanor set up an i********: account for her paintings. He visited her studio, photographed her work, and built her a simple website. Within months, she had sold several pieces to local galleries and was teaching a community art class.

On his last night in his parents' house, they shared a meal of paella—his first successful attempt at the complicated dish. Eleanor presented him with a small wrapped package.

Inside was a framed photograph of the repaired vase, the thin lines of glue catching the light.

"Remember," she said, "the most interesting people, like the most beautiful objects, are the ones that have been broken and mended with care. Life will break you, Tyler. It breaks everyone. The art is in how you repair yourself."

Years later, that photograph still held a place of honor in Tyler's home, a reminder of the unlikely friendship that had helped rebuild his confidence, and of the wisdom found in unexpected corners with those most often overlooked.