Steve sat at the wooden table with his favorite clay bowl.
It was painted with simple brown lines along the rim.
Every morning, he ate his figs and porridge from it.
Kynthos reached across the table for figs.
His elbow knocked against Steve's bowl.
The bowl slid off the edge and shattered on the stone floor.
Crack.
Steve jumped up, his face hot with anger.
"My bowl!" he shouted.
"I'm sorry!" Kynthos squeaked, pulling his hands back. "It was an accident!"
"You're so clumsy!" Steve yelled. "You broke it!"
Steve dropped to his knees to grab the broken pieces.
He was so angry he squeezed the sharp clay tightly in his fist.
Then, he winced. A sharp edge had cut his palm.
Grandfather walked over and sat beside Steve on the floor.
He gently opened Steve's hand and set the sharp piece aside.
A tiny drop of blood appeared on Steve's skin.
"The bowl is broken," Grandfather said quietly.
"He bumped the table!" Steve insisted.
"Yes," Grandfather agreed. "The bowl fell because Kynthos was careless. But who cut your hand?"
Steve looked down at his bleeding palm.
"Anger is like broken clay, Steve. The tighter you squeeze it, the deeper it cuts you."
Steve looked at the broken pieces on the floor, then at his brother's scared face.
He let out a long breath and opened his hand.
"It was just a bowl," Steve said quietly.
"Help me sweep up the pieces."
