Selene POV
The morning air shimmered with the gentle clink of porcelain and soft laughter. Sunlight streamed into the small garden patio of my childhood home, now dressed in a makeshift tea setting that smelled like both nostalgia and new beginnings. Antonio stood beside me in a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, his hand warm on the small of my back as we waited.
Ayra was already seated, her fingers nervously spinning her teaspoon, her eyes darting toward the gate with every passing second. Across from her sat my mother—stoic, composed, but clearly fighting an emotional war beneath the surface. My father remained inside, giving the women their space, though I noticed him glancing through the window from time to time.
The gate creaked.
A pair of hesitant footsteps echoed up the path, and then—there she was. Aunt Melinda.
She looked older than I remembered, but her eyes still held that same softness. Her smile trembled, and in her arms she carried a small tin box—the kind she used to store letters and pressed flowers. When she met my mother's eyes, time seemed to freeze. No greetings. No formalities. Just a deep silence filled with unspoken years.
"Hi, May," Aunt Melinda finally said, her voice brittle but hopeful.
My mother stared at her for a beat, lips pressed into a tight line—and then stood up.
"You're late," she said, and for a second, my heart dropped.
But then she pulled Melinda into a tight hug, the kind that held years of love buried under grief. They didn't cry, not like I expected. Instead, they laughed—softly, shakily—at the absurdity of time wasted. Ayra wiped away tears discreetly, and even Antonio looked away, giving them a moment to mend what was once frayed.
As the kettle whistled again, we sat around the table and passed tiny cups of ginger tea, sweetened just like Aunt Mel used to make. The conversation bloomed slowly: mentions of weddings missed, photographs never sent, the absurd fights of the past that seemed so small in hindsight.
Then came the memories.
Stories of Ayra and I building fairy houses in the garden. Of how my mom once tried dyeing our clothes with turmeric and ruined the entire laundry batch. How Aunt Mel taught me to braid with a pencil when we couldn't find a comb.
Laughter curled like incense smoke around us, softening every wrinkle and scar.
Antonio leaned over at one point, whispering, "This is the kind of healing you deserved."
I squeezed his hand beneath the table.
The tin box eventually made its way to me. Inside were our childhood letters. Drawings. A dried pink bougainvillaea from the day Ayra and I declared our imaginary boutique open for business. I didn't even remember half the things, but they came rushing back as if they'd never left.
My dad stepped out then, joining quietly. He gave Aunt Mel a nod, and she smiled at him in return. No words. Just acceptance.
As the sun dipped lower, and shadows stretched long across the garden, I realized something:
This wasn't just a reunion.
It was a re-stitching of souls.
Later, as Antonio and I walked back to his car, I leaned into his shoulder, heart heavy and full.
"I don't know how to thank you," I whispered.
He stopped, turned to face me, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Then don't," he said. "Just stay. Keep painting this life with me."
And in that golden moment, wrapped in the scent of tea and forgiveness, I nodded.
Because love—true love—was in showing up, even after time tried to tear you apart.
And we were showing up, together.