I didn’t speak.
I just kept arranging flowers.
He stepped in hesitantly. The tea house was nearly full—elderly women laughing, sipping tea, glowing with quiet pride and dignity.
“Mom?” he asked softly.
I turned and looked at him. Really looked.
He seemed… smaller. Not the towering figure who had pushed me out of his life, but just a man who didn’t know what he’d lost.
“I heard about this place,” he said. “My friend’s mother comes here. She said the owner was… you.”Mother-baby bonding classes
I nodded, calm. “Yes. I started it.”
He glanced around. “But… how? Where did the money come from?”
“I saved,” I replied. “And I remembered who I was.”
His wife opened her mouth—then closed it. My grandson tugged at her sleeve, eyes fixed on me.
“I didn’t know you could do this,” he whispered.
I knelt beside him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about Grandma.”
He smiled shyly. “It’s cool.”
The three of them stood awkwardly. My son rubbed the back of his neck. “We were thinking… maybe you could come home. We could make room.”
I held his gaze. Steady. Quiet.
Then I said: “No.”
Not angry. Not bitter.
Zeker weten.
“Dit is nu mijn thuis.”
Die avond, nadat de laatste klant vertrokken was, zat ik in de zachte gloed van de lantaarns die boven het terras hingen. Ik keek naar de sterren die in de rivier beneden fonkelden.
Ik dacht aan al die jaren dat ik mezelf in hoekjes had gekrompen voor anderen.
Maar nu is het genoeg.
Wraak smaakt het best koud, zeggen ze.
Maar die van mij?
Mijn drankje kwam warm aan – in delicate kopjes, geparfumeerd met jasmijn en herinneringen. Het werd geserveerd met sesamkoekjes en muziek, onder het gelach van vrouwen die eindelijk gezien waren.
En het allerbeste?
Het smaakte zoet.
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