one of her outside the restaurant with her hand on my shoulder. I had made a copy before giving the original to Elena.
I set it beside the teapot.
In the picture, my grandmother’s face was serious. Mine was young and uncertain. Her hand rested on me like a warning and a blessing.
Someday people will try to bend you.
I stood there until the river outside turned gold.
My phone buzzed once.
A message from my father: Your mother asked about you.
I read it, then set the phone face down.
For the first time in my life, a family emergency did not become my emergency.
I filled the teapot with hot water. I opened the balcony door. The city breathed below me, wet from rain and bright with evening traffic.
Then I sat on the floor of the home I had saved for, fought for, and almost surrendered to people who mistook my silence for permission.
I poured one cup of tea.
Just one.
And it was enough.
