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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.

A woman in the back raised her hand. “This is so good,” she said. “It tastes like—I don’t know—like someone’s grandmother made it.” morethanadaughter

“No,” Mira lied. “Allergies.”

“What word?” Mira asked.

Her mother closed her eyes again, but her grip didn’t loosen. “You’ll find it.” The funeral was in April, under a sky that couldn’t decide between rain and sun. Mira stood at the grave site in a navy dress her mother had bought her for a cousin’s wedding, the one her mother had said made her look “like a serious person who still knows how to laugh.” She still hadn’t found the word her mother was looking for

Mira put a hand on her shoulder. Not a mother’s hand. Not a daughter’s hand. Just a hand, warm and solid, offering nothing but the truth. They just live in the quiet space between

After class, a young woman waited behind. She had the same hollow look Mira remembered from her own mirror. “My mom just got diagnosed,” she said. “I don’t know how to be anything except scared.”