She cooked. She folded laundry. She rearranged books that hadn’t been touched in years.
But she didn’t talk to me. Not really. I stayed for two more nights.
The silence between rooms stretched like something no one wanted to name. And when I packed my bag and zipped the last pocket shut, she stood in the doorway, arms crossed, like she couldn’t decide if she was going to say something or not. She didn’t.
Back in Philadelphia the days felt different. I dropped two of my shifts. The bar let me keep weekends.
I kept tutoring because I liked the quiet clarity of explaining things. The rest of the time I studied slept and ate food that didn’t come from a packet. My grades climbed fast.
Not because I suddenly got smarter, but because I could finally breathe. I bought myself a pair of new sneakers. Not expensive, just intact.
They felt like an upgrade I had to earn twice, once in work, once in worth. Soraya texted more often. At first it was out of habit.
Then it turned into something else. She sent pictures of outfits she’d styled for clients at the boutique. They’re not designer, but I like them more, she wrote once.
They actually feel like mine. I didn’t know what to say. So I just said, I’m glad.
One night she called without warning. Her voice was quieter than usual. I think I finally see it now.
See what, what it cost you. All of it. There was a pause long enough to feel honest.
I didn’t want to believe it. Because if I did, I’d have to admit mom made things easier for me. And that meant she made things harder for you.
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. I don’t need you to feel guilty, I said. Just don’t pretend it was fair.
I won’t. That was all we said for a while. I heard the clink of glass on her end, probably tea not wine.
Soraya never liked alcohol. She hated the taste. I always thought that was funny.
She cleared her throat. Are you going home for the holidays? Not sure. Dad’s going.
I am too. I hesitated. Maybe we could go together, she added.
I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no either. It’s been a year since that dinner.
I’m still in Philadelphia, still in school. But everything feels steadier now. I sleep.
I eat. I study without watching the clock like it’s a threat. My professors have noticed the difference.
So have I. Soraya’s still in LA, but she’s not the same girl who used to post every brunch. She works part-time at a boutique that promotes sustainable fashion. She designs pieces from leftover fabric and talks more about craftsmanship than couture.
The pride in her voice is quieter but real. Mom works at a home goods store now. She says it’s temporary but I don’t ask for more.
Our calls are brief polite. There’s distance neither of us knows how to cross. Dad, on the other hand, calls every week.
Sometimes we talk about school. Sometimes we don’t. When he visits, he brings books and groceries and listens like time is no longer a luxury he has to ration.
One evening, Soraya called just as I was leaving the library. Thinking about going home for the holidays, she said, To see mom. I didn’t say anything.
Do you want to go together? She asked. Not for her. Just, to do it right, this time.
There was a long silence but she didn’t fill it. She just waited. I nodded before I even realized I was doing it.
Okay, I said. Let’s go. Christmas came with no grand gestures.
Just an early flight, two carry-ons, and a quiet knock at the door. Soraya and dad went in first. I followed behind.