I started looking forward to hearing from her. Reina would climb into my lap and say, “Is that the duck lady?” whenever I smiled at my phone.
Turns out, Nura found part-time work at a bakery, and eventually, a government-subsidized flat. It was tiny, but hers.
One weekend in spring, I asked if we could come visit.
I didn’t expect her to say yes. But she did.
Reina and I took the train down. It rained the whole way. I had this pit in my stomach, like meeting a pen pal from years ago. What if it was awkward? What if I’d built her up into something she wasn’t?
But when she opened the door, and I saw her smile, all nerves dissolved.
She hugged me like family.
Their apartment was modest—white walls, a little peeling near
the ceiling, but spotless. Smelled like fresh bread and lavender soap.
Maïra peeked out from behind her mom’s leg, then lit up when she saw Reina. Within five minutes they were sharing crayons and giggling over knock-knock jokes.
We ended up staying for hours. Nura made soup with handmade dumplings. We talked about our moms, our dreams, how exhausted we were.
That night on the train back, Reina fell asleep with her head on my lap, clutching the crocheted duck.
She whispered, “Maïra said the duck keeps you brave.”
I looked out the window and blinked back tears.
We kept visiting. Not constantly, but often enough. They came up once too. We took the girls to the zoo, and Reina held Maïra’s hand when the tiger growled too loud.
Over time, something strange and kind of beautiful happened.
