of course. I still scrambled for work, picking up translation gigs online and baking cookies to sell at Reina’s school fundraiser (I now have a side business because of that, ironically). But it helped. It reminded me I wasn’t alone.
Months passed. Spring bloomed again.
And then another twist I never saw coming.
At a birthday picnic for Maïra—six years old now, grinning with icing on her nose—Nura pulled me aside.
“I’m applying to culinary school,” she said.
I screamed. Probably too loud.
She’d been baking for months, perfecting pastries, even started taking small orders from neighbors. I’d been cheering her on, but I didn’t think she’d actually go for a diploma.
She did. She got in. She starts next week.
We’ve come full circle in some strange way.
Two tired mothers on the edge of falling apart, who accidentally held each other together.
I gave away old clothes, thinking
