Mom answered in a sweater I didn’t recognize, plain slightly worn. Her hair had more gray than last year. She smiled faintly.
It didn’t reach all the way. We sat around the same table where it all broke. The food was simple roasted vegetables a store-bought pie dry turkey dad overcooked.
No one brought up the past but no one pretended it hadn’t happened either. That, I think, was the win. We passed dishes.
Soraya complimented the stuffing. Dad asked about my classes. Mom said she was still getting used to retail hours.
It was honest, not warm, but honest. Later that night, I unpacked in my childhood room. The walls looked smaller.
I pulled out a plain white envelope from my bag, my tuition receipt. I placed it in the drawer next to a folded note dad had written a few months back. It read, This is yours.
Not because you earned it but because I finally saw you. I read it once more before closing the drawer. For a long time, I thought love had to be proven.
That silence meant strength and strength meant not needing anything. But I don’t believe that anymore. I believe in being seen.
And I believe some stories don’t end with healing, they begin with it.