Every cent I had. The money I kept for emergencies. The little amount I had hidden in coffee tins, inside old coat pockets, and at the back of my dresser drawer. Gone. Happily gone.
At first, she called me every night.
She cried because she missed home. She hated the cold. She hated the tiny flat she shared with two other girls. She hated the food in the cafeteria. She hated the long train rides and the way London made her feel both invisible and exposed.
« Mom, » she whispered one night, voice shaking, « I don’t think I belong here. »
« Yes, you do, » I said, sitting on the side of my bed with my phone pressed so tight to my ear it hurt. « You belong anywhere you decide to stand. »
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