"Where is she now?" Amara asked, her voice thick. Eli nodded toward a Honda Accord parked at the curb. Ontario plates. A woman sat in the driver's seat watching them. Even from a distance, Amara could see the resemblance.
She had Na's face shape. Eli's eyes, the same bone structure, the same way of holding her head, their mother's sister, Sarah's blood. She's been doing all the legal paperwork, Eli explained. Custody forms, court hearings, background checks. It's taken a week to get everything approved, but it’s done now," Na said.
Her voice carried a mixture of excitement and sadness. "We're leaving today, going to Toronto. She has a house there, a real house with real rooms for us, our own beds, our own space." She showed us pictures, Eli added. "It's not big or fancy, but it’s warm and it’s safe and it’s ours. Safe.
That word again, the one that mattered more than anything." Amara pressed her fingers to her lips. She was trying so hard not to cry, trying to be strong for them, but her chest felt like it was breaking open. This was good news. This was what she'd prayed for during those long nights when she'd wondered if she was doing enough. This was the ending she'd hoped for, but never quite believed would come.
But it still hurt. "God, it hurt. I’m so proud of you," she managed to say. The words came out broken, punctuated by tiny sobs she couldn’t quite swallow. So very, very proud.
Your mom would be proud, too. We know, Eli said softly. Na stepped forward suddenly. She reached into her coat, that beautiful new coat that fit her perfectly and pulled out something wrapped in wax paper. But it wasn’t food.
It was flat, rectangular, slightly bent at the corners from being carried carefully in an inside pocket. We wanted to give you something, Na whispered. Before we go, she unwrapped it slowly, revealing the paper beneath. A drawing handmade in colored pencils, rough around the edges, but full of soul and raw emotion that no technical skill could fake. The scene was simple but devastating in its power.
A figure stood in the middle of a storm. Dark skin rendered in browns and deep umbers, kind eyes, arms stretched wide like wings, like shelter, like protection. Behind her, two small figures curled close beneath the safety of those arms. Snow fell around them in swirls of white and pale blue, but none of it touched the children. They were safe in the circle of her embrace.
The sky in the picture glowed, not with light exactly, but with something else, something warm and protective, like the storm itself had paused, like even the wind had decided to be gentle in this one small space. Above the woman's head, in careful, painstaking letters that must have taken Na hours to get right, were two words. Our angel, Amara's vision blurred, her hands shook as Na placed the drawing in them. She could barely see it through her tears. You, Na, whispered, her own voice breaking.