The morning light filtered through the blinds of Daniel's small kitchen, casting golden lines across the table. A chipped, ceramic mug sat in front of him, filled with coffee that had already gone cold. He didn't mind. It was the mug his daughter had painted for him at a school art fair years ago—lopsided, with uneven blue streaks and the word "Dad" etched awkwardly on one side. It wasn't the kind of thing you'd find in a store. It was better. He had started every morning with that mug since the divorce. Today, like every other day, he took a deep breath before opening his laptop. The inbox greeted him with a familiar barrage—delayed shipments, an employee resignation, and a scathing email from a client. It was just another Monday. Then, as he reached to close the lid of his laptop, his elbow nudged the mug. It toppled, rolled, and hit the floor. CRACKKK . He froze. The handle had snapped clean off. A small piece of the rim had shattered. The coffee crept slowly into the grooves of the tile. Daniel knelt down and stared at it. For a few seconds, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he picked up the pieces, wiped the floor, and placed the broken mug in the sink. Years ago, this would have ruined his day. Maybe his week. He would've cursed himself for being careless, moped around, snapped at people, and relived the moment over and over. That was before he learned to ask a simple question: Is this within my control? A broken mug, no matter how sentimental, was still just a thing. An object with a shelf life. It had served its purpose. And in that moment, it offered one more lesson.Daniel poured himself a new cup of coffee. This time in a plain, white mug. He took a sip, still standing. Then he smiled. Everything is borrowed," Act as if it were not your own." And just like that, the day moved on.
