Mira tightened her grip anyway. “Where else would I go?”
The woman nodded and left. Mira washed the dishes, dried the pan, and set it on the shelf next to her mother’s notebook. morethanadaughter
That night, she sat alone in her mother’s apartment, which was now her apartment, or would be once she figured out what her meant. The notebook lay open on the coffee table. She read the list again: I am the person who… Mira tightened her grip anyway
I am the person who can rewire a lamp without electrocuting myself. I am the person my friends call at 2 a.m. when they can’t breathe. I am the person who learned Cantonese from a noodle-shop owner and can now order soup dumplings without pointing. I am the person who once gave her last twenty dollars to a stranger on the subway because he looked like her uncle who died alone. That night, she sat alone in her mother’s
She still hadn’t found the word her mother was looking for. But maybe that was the point. Some things don’t fit into language. They just live in the quiet space between who you were and who you’re becoming.
“What word?” Mira asked.