The Beauty of Breaking

Contents The Beauty of BreakingPART ONECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENPART TWO CHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEPART THREECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVECHAPTER THIRTY-SIXCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT The Beauty of BreakingKassie Lynn Oxford Copyright © 2023 Kassie Lynn Oxford All Rights ReservedWhile certain agencies, offices, and institutions in this work are real, all characters and events are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination. To my uncle Keith. Thank you for filling my life with wonderful stories and teaching me how to find the beauty in each one.Also, to my amazing, wonderful, infuriatingly stubborn husband. You push me to be the best version of myself and you never let me settle. I love you. Readers NoteIn this book, you will encounter moments and scenes in the characters’ lives that may be hard to read. They include violence, death, mental and emotional illness, and grief.These are all necessary in telling the characters’ stories, and exploring how humans deal with grief, traumatic and Traumatic events in our lives, and how God and our faith shape that. PART ONE BEGINNING CHAPTER ONEOctober 2005“I’m not doing it!” Atticus stomped his foot at his mother. He realized that the action of stomping one’s foot was childish and beneath him, but frustration won over rationale. “I refuse to do it.” He jutted out his chin and crossed his arms, making his ten-year-old stance wide and large as if to assert his dominance over the situation. Standing in the small space that separated the dining area from their living room, Atticus held his ground and prepared himself for the argument he was undoubtedly about to have.Unable to hold in her laughter any longer, Tracie Peterson spit a mouthful of coffee all over their dining table causing a look of disdain and shock to cross her son’s face. “I’m sorry. You just looked so silly stomping your foot.” She chuckled as she reached for her napkin on the table and blotted at her chin, removing all traces of coffee from her face. She carefully did the same for the table. Atticus stood, unmoving from his overbearing posture, and waited for his mother to address his previous statement.Tracie was a small woman, standing at just five feet with a petite frame. She was what many would consider beautiful, with a face that hadn’t aged since high school, save the little worry lines on her forehead. She hid those under curly auburn bangs. Her light brown eyes held an almost golden shine. She only wore a light layer of make-up. In fact, to look at her, you wouldn’t guess that she wore any at all. Small, soft physical appearance aside, Atticus knew his mother to be a fierce and headstrong opponent - one he had contended with on many occasions.“Please don’t make me do this,” said Atticus in a half- groan-half-whisper voice laced with defeat. He watched as his mother bent down to wipe up the drops of coffee that had scattered on the ash wood floor and decided a better approach would be groveling. “I’ll do the laundry for a month, I’ll wash your car, anything but this. I just can’t.” He stared at her, pleadingly.“You can and will,” his mother said as she pointed a thin finger at him. Atticus slouched his shoulders and walked away. It was no use arguing with her. He knew this better than most. Once his mother decided something, it was final. So, he did what any mature ten-year-old boy would do: refused breakfast and walked up the small staircase to his room so that he could sulk in peace.Up the stairs, to the left, and down a small hallway was the young boy’s sanctuary. Unlike that of most boys Atticus’s age, his room wasn’t cluttered with clothes, toys, and sports paraphernalia. No, Atticus’ room was tidy, minimally decorated, and the little bit of clutter that did exist consisted of stacks of books he had yet to put away. The bed wasn’t covered with cartoon or comic book characters; instead, he had opted for a navy-blue comforter and white sheets. Viewing his room, one would assume it belonged to that of a college professor, not a little boy. Atticus walked in and plopped down on the edge of his bed.“Why does she always do this to me?”As if it understood, the tortoise sitting in its terrarium on the nightstand beside his bed, nudged the glass with one of his feet and arched his neck toward him. Atticus rubbed the edge of the pillowcase between his fingers, something he had always done for comfort. He thought about the task that his mother had set before him.As anyone could deduce, Atticus Peterson was no ordinary young boy. An intelligent child with a higher-than- average IQ, his mother had been homeschooling him since he was six. The public school was unequipped to handle such a student and their refusal to let him skip a grade - or two or three - made the decision easy for her. However, much to Atticus’ dismay, his mother was determined to ensure that her son, although different, was also “approachable” and a “good conversationalist.” Atticus was perfectly happy to sit alone in his room reading a book or playing a game. His parents began to worry that their son was too reclusive. His mother’s solution was for him to tutor her best friend’s eight-year-old daughter, Lyla.There was only one problem. Atticus couldn’t stand Lyla. She was pure chaos and drove him crazy. But their mothers had been friends since before Atticus and Lyla were born, so he had to put up with her. He knew, however, that Lyla would be thrilled about the idea. She’d told Atticus on more than one occasion that she found him to be “cute” and was always chasing after him, asking him to play. Why she was unable to sit still and read a