You are annoyed at this mug right now. There is a brown ring dried into the bottom that will not come out no matter how you scrub, and a hairline chip on the rim you keep meaning to throw it away over.
You never throw it away.
Twenty years from now that chip is exactly why you will reach past three nicer mugs to get to this one. Your thumb already knows where it sits. You have never once looked at the handle before grabbing it; your hand just goes.
I want to tell you something about the ring you keep scrubbing. It is not stubbornness. It is a record. It is every slow morning you stood at that counter in your socks, waiting for the kettle, not yet the person the day would ask you to be. You will not remember any single one of those mornings. You will remember that there were so many of them, and that you were allowed to have them.
The mug will outlast the apartment. It will outlast two of the people you will hand it to.
So here is the only instruction I have. When you finish this cup, do not rush to rinse it. Sit another minute with it warm in your hands. You have the time. I promise you have the time.
I am holding it right now, empty, and it is still the best thing on the shelf.