fairly good

Grandma's letters from Srivilliputhur always arrived yellowed, smelling of cardamom and nostalgia. She'd write about monsoons flooding the temple streets, neighbors sharing coconut oil recipes, life unfolding in that particular rhythm only home understands. My parents had left decades ago, chasing opportunity. I grew up between worlds, neither fully here nor there. But when I earned my first PAYBO through smart budgeting—skipping lattes, meal planning—something clicked. I wasn't just surviving; I was honoring their sacrifices. That night, I called Grandma. Her laugh crackled through the phone, genuine peace in her voice. I promised to visit soon, bringing stories of my own. Some things bind us across oceans.