We were still sitting on the bed, the three of us, when the room finally started to feel like it belonged to me again.
The sheets had gone a little wrinkled beneath us, and the faint scent of Maya's shampoo — something fruity, maybe apple — clung to the air, mixing with the leftover warmth from dinner.

No shouting. No footsteps. Just the soft hum of the desk fan and the faint noise of someone's TV down the hall — probably a rerun of Friends or Unsolved Mysteries crackling through the walls like a ghost from someone else's life.
Phoebe's voice drifted in, muffled and tinny, followed by a studio audience laugh track that didn't quite match the timing. A few doors down, someone coughed, and then the hallway went still again.

Mom leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed loosely like she was still sorting everything in her head. Her purse sat forgotten on the floor, half-unzipped, a cassette of Tracy Chapman sticking out the side.
The cassette case had a crack near the hinge, and the liner notes were curled at the edge. The corner of a crumpled napkin peeked out too, scribbled with what looked like a grocery list or maybe half a phone number.

"I guess I've got a lot of catching up to do," she said finally, her tone gentler than I'd heard in years.
Her voice had that late-night rasp, like she'd been holding back too many things for too long.

"You'll get there," I said.
My thumb brushed the edge of the comforter — that same faded one from back home, carried with me like a tether to something stable.

She nodded and gave me a tired smile. The kind that meant she wanted to believe me — maybe even did — but was still figuring out how.
Her eyes lingered a second too long on my face. Like she was trying to memorize it all over again.

Maya shifted beside me, then leaned over and said under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear:
"Vergeet die klootzak van een vader."
Her voice was light, but there was steel behind it — the kind of loyalty that burned quietly.

I snorted.
It hit too fast to hold back. My shoulders jumped and I pressed my lips tight to keep it from turning into a full-blown laugh.

Mom blinked. "What was that?"
Maya gave her the most innocent smile. "Dutch homework."
She reached casually for the spiral notebook near the edge of the bed, as if that sealed the deal.

I nearly lost it. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but the laugh still escaped — bright and unfiltered.
It felt good — real. Not like the nervous laugh I used to force when things got awkward. This one came from somewhere deeper.

Maya cracked up beside me, her laughter bouncing off the posters we'd stuck half-crooked on the cinderblock wall.
The curled corner of the Smashing Pumpkins poster flapped slightly from the fan's breeze, and the scotch tape holding up a photo booth strip fluttered loose.

Mom looked between us, suspicious. "I feel like I should be offended."
I wiped my eyes, still laughing. "Nah, we're just practicing conjugations."
My voice cracked a little mid-sentence, but neither of them blinked.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened even more. "I don't know what you two are saying... but I haven't seen you laugh like this in a long time."
Her fingers idly traced the hem of her sleeve — that old navy cardigan she always wore when she didn't know what else to do with her hands.

I glanced at Maya.
She winked.
And in that wink was every quiet reassurance I didn't know how to ask for — but somehow always got.

Mom glanced at the clock — the red digits glowing faintly in the dim dorm light — and then stood, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she were shaking off the weight of the day.
The digital numbers blinked 6:42, casting a soft red glow across the floor tiles. Somewhere down the hall, the faint buzz of a vacuum cleaner started up — probably the RA doing rounds before quiet hours.

"Well girls," she said after a bit of silence, her voice steady but lighter than before. "I know it's been a long day, but I'm taking you both out to dinner. Someplace decent. I'm not taking no for an answer."
She tugged her jean jacket from the back of the desk chair and slung it over her arm, already slipping back into her take-charge mode.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"
She gave a sly smile — the kind she used to give when she'd smuggle movie snacks in her purse or let me skip school for "mental health days" back in high school.
The kind of smile that meant she already knew the answer was yes, even if we hadn't said it yet.

"Barbary Fig," she said. "Grand Avenue. Ever been?"
Maya's head snapped up. "Is that the place with the couscous and the mint tea?"
Her eyes lit up like someone had just promised her front-row tickets to Alanis Morissette.

Mom nodded. "And candlelight. And tablecloths. Let's go."
There was something warm in her tone — not just generosity, but intention. Like she was trying to stitch the day back together with good food and soft lighting.

Maya clutched her chest dramatically. "We're not eating out of paper baskets tonight? No Styrofoam cups or vending machine burritos?"
She widened her eyes like she couldn't believe such luxury existed on a college student's radar.

Mom smirked. "Not unless you plan on protesting by the dumpster. You both need a proper meal — something with real silverware."
She nudged her purse with her foot, sending a couple old receipts fluttering out.

I glanced down at what I was wearing — an old T-shirt with a faded soccer logo and a hoodie. "Uh, do I need to change?"
Mom tilted her head. "Only if you want to. But I'm not about to judge. I'm wearing some cheap clothes from K-mart."
The jeans had a little bleach spot near the hem, and her sneakers looked like they'd been through a hundred school pick-ups and grocery runs — because they had.

That earned a laugh from both of us.
Maya grabbed a hair tie from her wrist and pulled her curls into a messy ponytail, still grinning.

Maya hopped off the bed and stretched, her spine cracking slightly. "Barbary Fig has that lamb dish I dream about. But I'll go vegetarian in solidarity," she added quickly, looking at me.
I smiled.
The offer sat in the air between us like a small, quiet gift — unwrapped and glowing.

Mom was already digging through her purse, muttering about where she put the car keys. She pulled out a wrinkled receipt, a roll of antacids, and finally held the keys up like a trophy. "Got 'em."
The keys jangled with a faded keychain that read #1 Mom — the paint half worn off.

"Classic mom purse," Maya whispered to me. "Could probably survive a week in the woods with that thing."
"Or build a small raft," I added.
We tried to stay serious, but both of us cracked up halfway down the hall.

As we filed out of the room, I paused by the door, taking a slow breath. The hallway still smelled like floor wax and popcorn, but something had shifted — not in the air, but in me.
A flyer for a campus poetry reading flapped softly on the corkboard across the hall, and a lava lamp glowed faintly from someone's open doorway.

I wasn't just surviving the day anymore.
I was stepping into whatever came next.
Not a clean break. But something new. Something mine.

Mom turned around and smiled at us. "Come on, girls. Let's go eat something fancy enough to make us feel like we've got our lives together."

****

We slid into her station wagon and buckled up, the familiar squeak of the seatbelts snapping into place.
The upholstery was that scratchy gray fabric with little navy-blue dots, and the backseat still had an old Goosebumps book and a crumpled Burger King kids' meal bag wedged between the cushions.

As Mom turned the ignition, the radio crackled to life — KOOL 108, her favorite station.
The dial glowed faintly green, and the speakers gave that signature pop before the sound came through — a little tinny in the back, but clear enough.

A DJ's voice faded out, and then the opening notes of "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" came on like fate.
That instantly recognizable synth line sparkled into the cabin, full of glitter and promise.

Maya and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
She shook her head like she couldn't believe it, ponytail swaying against the collar of her jean jacket.

Mom grinned as she pulled away from the curb. "Total coincidence," she said, but we didn't believe her for a second.
She gave a tiny shrug, but her eyes were too smug to sell it.

"I mean," I said, still smiling, "if you were trying to win Cool Mom points, that definitely helped."
I leaned back into the seat, arms folded loosely, the air smelling faintly like the lemony pine-scented car freshener clipped to the vent.

She turned the volume up just a bit. The car filled with the fizzy, bright sound of Cyndi Lauper's voice, windows cracked to let in the warm early fall air.
The breeze brought in that crisp-in-the-shade, warm-in-the-sun feeling — the kind that made you want to wear a sweater even though you didn't need one yet.

The chorus kicked in just as we hit the main road, and even though none of us sang out loud, we were all kind of dancing in our own way — Maya tapping the beat on her knee, me swaying my head lightly, Mom drumming her fingers on the steering wheel like she'd done a thousand times before.
The old Saturn station wagon rumbled gently beneath us, the kind of smooth ride where you could feel the vibrations of the music in the seat.

Outside, the city passed by in soft streaks of gold and rust and neon.
Storefront signs buzzed quietly, some flickering — a laundromat with "OPEN" in pink cursive, a bakery window glowing with pies lined up in the glass. A kid on a skateboard shot across a side street, Walkman clipped to his jeans.

The dusky orange light of early evening wrapped everything in that quiet kind of magic that only seemed to exist just before the streetlamps flickered on.
It was that golden hour lull — not quite day, not quite night — where every shadow stretched long and slow across the sidewalks.

Leaves skittered across the sidewalks, a few already turned to bright reds and yellows.
They danced along the curb like confetti from a party no one had invited us to but we were glad to witness anyway.

The world felt slow, suspended — like we were gliding through a movie scene.
Like a scene from a coming-of-age film with a perfect needle drop. Everything framed just right, nothing rushed.

And somehow, with the radio playing and laughter still lingering in the air, it didn't feel like we were running from anything anymore.
It felt like we were headed toward something.

****

By the time we pulled up outside Barbary Fig, the sun had dipped behind the brick buildings, and the front windows glowed amber.
The station wagon rumbled into a tight parallel spot, tires crunching over scattered leaves as the headlights dimmed. The golden windowpanes shimmered like old film stills, shadows flickering behind gauzy curtains.

The little wooden sign above the door creaked in the breeze, and I could already smell the spices—cinnamon, cumin, something lemony and warm—before we even opened the door.
There was something cozy and ancient about the scent, like someone had bottled sunlight and poured it over the walls inside.

People walked by in scarves and jean jackets, their laughter soft against the hum of Grand Avenue.
A couple in matching Doc Martens strolled past holding hands, and someone pushed open the door to the indie bookstore next door, letting out a gust of warm air and the sound of a cash register bell.

Inside, it felt like stepping into another world. Worn wood floors, tile mosaics, rich fabrics hanging in corners like secrets waiting to be told.
The air inside was warmer, quieter. The walls held colors like rust and plum and deep teal — dim but not dark, like memory.

There was a faint sound of jazz playing from an old speaker tucked behind the bar, blending with the gentle clink of silverware and quiet conversation.
Something with horns and brushed drums, low and smooth — the kind of music that didn't ask to be noticed, but stayed with you anyway.

The lighting was low, soft. Everything felt gold and flickering.
Candlelight danced along the rim of the glassware and the gentle curve of the ceramic vases on the window ledges.

A server in a black apron led us to a tucked-away corner table with a flickering votive candle and menus printed on thick, cream-colored paper that felt expensive just to hold.
The server moved quietly, like they were trained not to disturb the atmosphere — just become part of it.

We sat. We breathed. We just... existed, for a moment. No expectations. No fear. Just the warmth of the space and each other.
There was a hush at the table — not silence, just peace. Like the day finally remembered how to exhale.

The waiter brought mint tea in a silver pot with tiny glasses. Steam curled up into the air like a spell. The smell was sweet and fresh, almost like toothpaste but somehow better. Cleaner.
The pot clinked gently as it was set down. The little glasses had etched designs in the sides, and the tea was almost too hot to hold at first — almost.

"I feel underdressed," I said, half-laughing, smoothing my sleeves and glancing around at the boho couples and professors in scarves who looked like they belonged in old bookstore ads.
One man nearby had a turtleneck, wireframe glasses, and a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance on the table. Another was sketching in a pocket notebook while sipping espresso.

"You look beautiful," Maya said.
Her voice didn't rise above the table's glow — it landed softly, like it belonged only to me.

Mom didn't disagree. She just reached for the tea and poured with both grace and precision, like she did this sort of thing all the time.
The tea splashed gently into the tiny glasses without a drop spilled. She handed one to each of us, thumb brushing my hand for just a second longer than necessary.

The appetizers were light—stuffed grape leaves, olive tapenade with flatbread that crackled just right between your teeth. Everything tasted fresh and sharp and kind of magical.
The tapenade had just the right bite of garlic and lemon, and the grape leaves unraveled in soft, savory ribbons.

We sipped and nibbled and leaned into the calm, letting the tension of the day dissolve into the candlelight.
Somewhere, a fork clinked gently against a dish. Someone laughed too loud at a table across the room, and then the hum settled again.

Maya leaned toward me, lips close to my ear, and whispered,
"Als we terug zijn in de slaapzaal, wil je dan neuken?"
The Dutch lilt made it sound almost too graceful for what it meant.

I nearly choked on my tea and slapped a hand over my mouth.
"Maya," I hissed, grinning. "Shhh!"
My face went hot, and I stared hard at the plate of olives like it might rescue me.

Mom blinked. "What?"
Maya picked up her glass with the most innocent face in the world. "Still just Dutch homework."
She sipped her tea delicately, eyes wide like she hadn't just committed a verbal war crime.

I tried so hard not to laugh, but the smirk on her face made it impossible. I turned toward the window and bit my knuckle, but it didn't help. The giggle escaped.
It bubbled out bright and real — not the shaky kind from earlier in the day, but the kind that came from somewhere honest.

Mom narrowed her eyes. "I liked it better when I could tell when people were talking about me."
Maya gave her a wide-eyed nod. "We'll add subtitles next time."
That did it. Even Mom laughed.
Not just a chuckle, but a full laugh — head tilted back, eyes crinkled. A sound I hadn't realized I missed until I heard it again.

****

Dinner arrived in steaming tagines—mine was full of roasted vegetables, chickpeas, and couscous with cinnamon and almonds.
The heavy clay lid lifted with a faint puff of steam, and the scent hit instantly — sweet, spiced, earthy. The colors of the dish glowed in the candlelight: orange carrots, deep green zucchini, golden couscous.

The smell was warm and rich, like a memory I hadn't had yet. I took one bite and nearly melted into my chair. It was the kind of food that made you close your eyes without meaning to.
The kind of food that made you forget the noise, the hard parts, the distance between who you were and who you're becoming.

Maya's had lamb and something smoky I couldn't pronounce — harissa maybe? Whatever it was, the steam clung to her curls, and her whole face lit up after the first bite.
She made a little sound of joy, half-laugh, half-sigh, and for a second, she looked like a kid again — before the world asked her to be tougher.

Mom picked at a salad with pomegranate seeds and feta, her fork moving slowly like her appetite hadn't quite caught up with her yet. Her wine glass sat untouched at first, the deep red liquid catching the candlelight like stained glass.
She was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn't empty — more like her thoughts were finally stretching out after being packed too tight for too long.

We didn't talk much at first. Just the occasional quiet comment about the food or the tile on the walls or the couple at the next table clearly on a first date.
They were awkward and overdressed, and the guy kept wiping his palms on his khakis when he thought she wasn't looking.

There was a comfort in the clink of silverware and the low hum of conversation around us. Someone at the bar was talking about a Twins game.
"...if Knoblauch doesn't tighten up at second, we're screwed next season," drifted in and out behind the jazz.

The server passed by with a fresh pot of mint tea, and the aroma bloomed between us again — cool, sweet, almost sharp.
The scent cut through the richness of the food like a breath of clean air after a storm.

Halfway through the meal, Mom looked at me and said,
"I want you to know... I'm proud of you."
She didn't raise her voice, but it landed heavy and warm in my chest like a stone that didn't hurt.

I blinked. My fork hovered over the couscous for a second too long.
I wasn't sure if I'd heard her right — or if maybe part of me had just needed to.

"For standing up for yourself. For being honest. And for surviving that man's temper."
She didn't say his name. She didn't have to.

Maya reached for my hand under the table and laced her fingers through mine. Her thumb brushed lightly against mine, steady and warm, and suddenly the whole restaurant felt quieter — like the world had turned down its volume for us.
Even the jazz seemed to fade back, the music curling up around the edges like it knew to give us space.

Mom smiled faintly and said,
"Girls just want to have fun, right?"
She tilted her head a little like she was testing the words out for herself.

I looked at her — I could tell she meant it. Not in that dismissive way people sometimes said it, like it was a punchline. But in the way that meant something real. Like she saw me. All of me.
Like she was trying — really trying — to step into the world I'd built for myself, not tear it down or peek at it from the outside.

Maya grinned.
"Is that a quote... or a request?"
Mom laughed, her whole face softening in a way I hadn't seen in years.
"Bit of both."
It was the kind of laugh that creased the corners of her eyes and made her whole body shift — like something had unknotted in her shoulders.

I smirked.
"We're already living it."
"Could've fooled me an hour ago," she teased, reaching for her wine at last and taking a small sip like a peace offering.
The rim of the glass caught the candlelight again, this time not like stained glass — but like a lantern held up in the dark.

And just like that, something in the air softened.
It wasn't magic. It was human. Earned.

Not everything was healed. The bruises on the inside — the ones you couldn't point to — were still there. The worry. The wondering. The what-ifs. But they didn't feel so sharp tonight. Not here.
Tonight they sat quietly at the edge of the table, like ghosts that knew they weren't welcome but stayed anyway, politely.

The pain was still there — it would be for a while — but right now, at a little candlelit restaurant in St. Paul, with mint tea and hand-holding and a mom who stayed... I felt okay.
I felt like maybe, the fun was finally ours to have.