A year later, a package arrived with the same clothes, now softer from use, and a shaky handwritten note thanking me for helping when she had no one. Beneath them sat a crocheted duck from my childhood that I hadn’t meant to give away. It had guarded her daughter from nightmares, she wrote, and now it was “time it comes home.” I sat on the kitchen floor and cried, undone by the return of something I hadn’t known I lost and by the reminder of how fragile I’d felt when I mailed it.
The note included a phone number. When I called, Nura answered with a tired gentleness I recognized immediately. She told me about escaping an abusive partner, landing in a shelter, and nearly not messaging me out of shame. We stayed in touch—photos of our girls, job listings, late-night jokes. When she got part-time work and a small flat, Reina and I visited. She greeted us like family. Our daughters bonded instantly, and Nura and I found ourselves talking easily about grief, survival, and the quiet hunger to feel safe again.
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