Two coffee cups in the sink.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing perfect.
Just a life.
For years, I had believed resilience meant carrying everything without dropping it.
I had been wrong.
Sometimes resilience meant putting something down.
Sometimes trust meant allowing another person to pick it up.
Sometimes love did not arrive to replace what had been lost.
It arrived to stand beside it.
And sometimes the person who understood that first was a six-year-old girl with a stuffed elephant, questionable boundaries, and absolutely no respect for corporate hierarchy.
On the anniversary of the day we met, Adrian found Mia’s old drawing while we were cleaning a closet.
Three stick figures.
One very tall.
One with long brown hair.
One tiny figure between them.
Above our heads, in crooked purple letters, Mia had written:
MY FAMILY MAYBE.
Adrian carried it into the kitchen.
“Julia.”
I looked up.
He held out the drawing.
