I later returned to my grandmother’s house and opened a wooden box she had left behind, which contained letters she had written to me every year since I became a teacher, and in her final letter, she wrote, “You are taken care of, not because you need it, but because you deserve it,” and that was when I fully understood everything she had done for me.
I still teach, I still live simply, but I carry something different now, something steady and undeniable, and I no longer speak to my parents, not out of anger, but because peace requires boundaries, and sometimes silence is the healthiest choice.
