I went.
I entered that house with my heart pounding.
I hadn’t been there since the night I left.
Everything looked the same, but different.
There were Andrea’s drawings on the fridge.
Miguel’s bike on the porch.
Voices.
Life.
“Grandma!”
Sarah ran to hug me.
“You came?”
Michael hugged me too, taller than I remembered.
“I missed you, Grandma.”
Teresa greeted me with a hug.
“Come in, Beatatrice. Your house, your table.”
Emily was in the kitchen.
She saw me and nervously wiped her hands on her apron.
“Beatatrice,” she said, “thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
We looked at each other.
Two women who had been at war.
Two women who were not yet friends.
But who were learning to coexist.
“The mole smells delicious,” I said.
“Teresa taught me her recipe,” Emily admitted. “It’s better than mine.”
It was the first time I heard her admit that someone did something better than her.
