A woman who could plan under surveillance.
A woman who could send a note over a wall.
A woman who could speak in court.
A woman who could raise a son without teaching him hatred.
A woman who could build a house with no garage and fill it with laughter.
The next morning, Mateo woke before everyone else and crawled onto the porch beside me.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Was I really born during a storm?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“Was it scary?”
I looked at his sleepy face, still soft with childhood, marshmallow stuck in his hair.
“Yes,” I said honestly. “It was scary.”
He leaned his head against my arm.
“But we’re okay now.”
I wrapped my arm around him.
“Yes,” I said. “We are okay now.”
The sun rose slowly, painting the sky gold.
The children began waking inside the tents. Julian snored in a folding chair. Mrs. Nela shouted from the kitchen that nobody was allowed to eat cake for breakfast unless they had eggs first.
Mateo jumped up to argue, and I watched him run toward the sweet noise of ordinary chaos.
There was a time when Dante told me I was learning my place.
He was right about one thing.
I did learn my place.
Not in his cage.
Not in his shadow.
Not in the story his family tried to write for me.
My place was in the doorway of my own home, watching my son run free.
My place was in a classroom, teaching children their voices mattered.
My place was beside the people who came when I called, and beside the woman who heard me before I could scream.
My place was in my own life.
And no one would ever lock me out of it again.