And I’m a total sucker for it.
“Okay, okay. You can have a strawberry. I’ll make my coffee and come back with one, okay?”
“Thank you, Lizzie Bell!” Squawk.
I laugh as I turn toward the kitchen, stepping into the warm brown space. I reach into the cupboard and pause when I spot my very last bag of English Breakfast tea.
I exhale slowly.
Just another reminder of the life waiting for me in Belgium. Another thread pulling me in two different directions.
I heat the water, scoop spoonfuls of coffee into the paper filter, and soon the aroma rises to meet me—rich, dark, and comforting. If the phrase “the world has woken up” had a scent, it would be this. Fresh coffee, slightly caramel-toned, reminding me faintly of my favorite dessert ingredient: condensed milk.
I grab milk from the fridge—milk that came straight from my dad’s cows—and pour it into my cup. A spoonful of sugar and my coffee is ready, signaling to my brain a new chapter of the day has begun. Let’s get your head in order, Lizzie. Chapter eleven, maybe, after all that tossing and turning.
I pull a strawberry from the fridge for Pimenta, slicing off the top and cutting it into small pieces.
That little parakeet really keeps me on my toes.
Coffee in one hand and strawberry in the other, I return to the cage and open it. He hops eagerly onto my fingers, accepting the fruit with obvious delight.
“Here you go, little guy.”
“That’s the good stuff!” he squawks.
I laugh. “It really is. Want to come out and fly for a little bit?”
“Yes, please.”
I lift him carefully, letting him perch on my hand. His feathers glow in the morning light—yellow, orange, green, and flickers of blue woven together like God painted him with joy.
We pass what we callMom’s greenhouse—really just a living room with floor-to-ceiling colonial windows. Rustic sofas with bamboo cane frames and soft white cushions sit among a jungle of plants. Hanging ferns drape from the ceiling, monstera leaves fan out like open hands, and potted parlor palms and umbrella trees crowd every corner. Outside, banana trees sway gently, making it feel as though the house itself has been gently swallowed by greenery.
I step out onto the wraparound back porch where hammocks hang lazily and chairs wait for quiet mornings like this one.
I settle into a chair, releasing a slow breath as Pimenta launches into the air. He flutters between the small trees near the porch, flashes of color darting through the leaves. He’s been trained well enough that he always stays close, his bright feathers easy to spot as he loops back and forth like a tiny ball of color.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of nature seep into me—the rustle of leaves, distant birdsong, the hum of a world already fully awake.
This part of Brazil really is beautiful. Wild and lush and alive in a way that Europe never quite is.
That’s definitely a point in the “stay longer” column.
Or at least… stay a few extra weeks.
I know that would be awkward for the Blancs. They rely on me. But maybe they could manage for a couple of weeks without me? Maybe it wouldn’t be such a big disruption.
Ugh. I don’t know. Is it worth it, is it not?
IT WAS ONE DATE, LIZZIE. GET A GRIP.
The thought snaps through my mind like a rubber band, sharp and undeniable.
It was one date. Why would I call him? Why would I even consider rearranging the life I’ve carefully built over the past two years in Belgium? Time with my uncle’s family, exploring cobblestone streets, making friends, learning French until it finally feels natural on my tongue.
I’vejustbecome fluent in French.
Okay, maybe notjust. It’s maybe been a while. But still. That took time. Effort.
