“I know.”
“Do you?” Her eyes sharpen. “Because the world is not built for people who see colors in the air. You have to focus on what’s real. What pays the bills.”
I stir the soup, keeping my expression neutral. Larisa gets to announce she’s bi over dinner and it’s modernadolescence. But my synesthesia, something I was born with, as natural as breathing, that’s still imagination.
Different in the wrong way.
“How’s school?” Aunt Dana asks, the subject closed. “Your scholarship came through for next year?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t lose it.” Her tone hardens. “We can’t help you if something happens. You know this.”
I do. The reminder comes every visit:we took you in, we gave you a roof, but you’re on your own now.
She looks toward the window, her voice softening. “Your father would be proud. He worked so hard to bring you here. Your mother too—such talent. If they’d stayed in Cluj, she’d be teaching at the conservatory. He’d have his own practice.”
The old story.
What could have been, if they’d lived.
If fate had chosen differently.
If the drunk driver hadn’t crossed three lanes on the FDR that night.
“They thought it would be better here,” Dana continues. “Better for you. And look—engineering degree, good school.” She gestures at the chipped tiles and flickering fluorescent light. “We gave up everything to come here. Your uncle had galleries in Cluj. I had a lab, a team. We were someone.”
“You’re still someone, Tanti.”
She makes a small sound, not quite a laugh. “I wash test tubes for undergrads who can’t read protocols. Your uncle opens doors and calls taxis. That’s not exactly what we went to university for.”
“I’m glad you came to America. I like it here,” Larisaannounces from her room. Perfect tween rebellion, wrapped in vanilla-scented obliviousness.
Dana closes her eyes. “Of course you do. You’ll never know how it feels to start over. To lose everything.” Then, to me—quieter— “At least someone gets to have it easy.”
Larisa appears in the doorway, phone in hand, messy bun tilting. “Hey, Wren. How’s Boston?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Billie Eilish is coming to New York in February. I have to go.”
“Concert tickets?” Dana asks without looking up from the stove.
“Obviously.” Larisa sighs, dramatic. “Everyone’s going.”
“Everyone,” Dana mutters. “As if five hundred dollars for a ticket is normal.”
“It’s her birthday soon,” I intercept quietly.
“March third,” Dana says, stirring the soup. “I told her we can’t afford it. She’ll survive.”
Larisa’s voice carries from down the hall. “Then can I at least get the Glow Recipe cream from Sephora? Pleeease? Everyone has it!”
Dana shakes her head, smiling despite herself. “See? ‘Everyone has it.’ That’s her whole argument.”
“It’s a good one,” I say softly. “For her age.”
Dana gives me a tired look. “Don’t defend her, Irina. You were never that frivolous.”
E-ree-nah—soft, quick, certain. Not the stretched-out American version that never quite fits.
It lands like home. She says it the way my mother did.
