On Belonging
She went on that long-awaited vacation with her friends. Friends—she hesitated even calling them that. One was twenty years younger. The other, five or six. Close enough to feel familiar. Far enough to feel the difference. During the elephant sanctuary tour, the youngest—laughed and said casually, almost absent-mindedly, “Hey, the staff asked me if your mom had come out of the bathroom.” He meant it lightly. He meant no harm. But time slowed anyway. The words stretched, replayed themselves, settled somewhere heavy. A throwaway joke turned into something else entirely—a quiet confirmation of what she hadn’t voiced: she didn’t belong here. Not quite. She withdrew after that. Not dramatically. Just subtly. Fewer words. Less presence. Her body folding inward as if trying to take up less space. At lunch, she tried again. She brought it up, hoping the older of the two would do what friends do—brush it off, defend her, call it stupid. Instead, he said, almost thoughtfully, “That could be...