With every weekend when dad comes home and with every meal he has with us, with very casual smile across the table, with every small joke and every little trip, to the mall or the grocery shop, with every text message and with every flustered expression as my parents learn how to send emojis to each other, seems to my overly optimistic brain as another stitch in the cloth, once torn by time and neglect, now being looked at again with courage to make amends.

Time has swallowed some of the pain, has also removed the marks, of crayons on the walls in my house, but has created some new ones, like cracks in the ceiling which get worse with rain, at my mom’s new place where we moved. But that’s not all that time has done. Because sometimes I give myself the liberty to find, a pile of rubble where the walls of pride once stood and I hope that one day a jar of prayers, collected over the years, will bring us all back home again.