Amina came home in early May for five days. She arrived on a Friday afternoon with only one small bag and a quiet determination in her eyes. The lilacs were still blooming, though their peak had passed, and the air carried the softer, greener scent of late spring. She hugged us both at the car without hesitation, then stood in the driveway for a moment, looking at the house like she was checking whether it still felt like hers.
“It’s strange,” she said as we walked inside. “Every time I come back, it takes me a little less time to feel like I belong here again. But it still takes time.”
We didn’t push her to explain what she meant. We simply let her settle in.
The first two days were deliberately light. We cooked together, walked to the creek, and watched movies in the evenings without
