I began missing home during my second week in the city.
Not the house with plank walls and a leaky roof. Nor the thin mat that left woven lines across my cheek every morning. What I missed was Grandma's voice when she called my name from the kitchen, as if making sure I was still living in the same world as her.
In the city, no one called to me that way.
The room I rented was behind a tailor's house. It was no larger than the space where Grandma arranged her fried-snack table. I slept on a new, thin mattress, but my body kept searching for the old mat. Every time I woke, my hand reached for the empty side of the bed.
There was no sound of Grandma breathing.
No little cough disguised beneath the clatter of a pot.
No whisper saying, “Go to sleep. Tomorrow, we start again.”
On the third night, I lit the lamp and wrote a letter.
Dear Grandma,
I've eaten.
I stopped for a long time after writing that sentence. The truth was, I hadn't eaten yet. The spending money she had given me would last for several days, but I had bought a notebook because I felt I had to start school with something new. Since morning, my stomach had held nothing but sweet tea and a piece of bread.
But I knew that if I wrote I was hungry, Grandma would send money she didn't have.
I continued.
The school is big. The teachers are kind. I'm not afraid.
That last sentence wasn't entirely true, either. I was afraid almost all the time. Afraid of getting lost on the way, afraid I wouldn't have any friends, afraid my lessons would be too difficult, and afraid that one day Grandma wouldn't be able to pay my school fees anymore.
But in my letters to Grandma, I only wrote things that would let her sleep peacefully.
I folded the letter into four parts. Grandma always kept my letters in an old biscuit tin, right beneath the sewing fabrics. That was why I never wrote anything I wanted other people to read.
I sent the letter the next morning.
Three days later, Grandma's reply arrived.
The envelope was brown, its edge slightly damp, and my name was written in large, slanted letters. I recognized that handwriting even before opening the letter. Grandma never wrote much. A single sheet of paper could be folded four times and filled with short sentences.
Kiddo,
Don't forget to eat.
If you're short on money, tell me.
If your lessons are difficult, ask questions.
If anyone makes fun of you, don't carry it home in your heart.
I read that last sentence over and over.
It was as if Grandma knew that in the city, I carried too many things in my heart. Shame. Fear. Longing. And the desire to become someone soon, so all her sacrifices wouldn't be in vain.
At the very bottom, there was smaller writing.
Grandma's doing fine. The fried snacks sold out. There was a new customer yesterday.
I smiled. Then I cried.
Not because the letter was sad. If anything, it was because Grandma always made life sound lighter than it really was. She wrote about the fried snacks selling out, but I could imagine her aching back as she lifted the table. She wrote about a new customer, but I knew she must have stood until her legs swelled.
I slipped the letter into my school uniform pocket and carried it to school.
That day, I followed the lessons more bravely. When I didn't understand a math problem, I raised my hand. When the teacher asked someone to read out an answer, I stood up even though my voice trembled.
I didn't become smart in a single day. I didn't suddenly have lots of friends, either. But whenever I wanted to give up, my hand touched the pocket where I kept Grandma's letter.
The letter was thin.
But it felt like a hand resting against my back.
Several weeks later, I received word that my school fees had to be paid right away. I returned to my room with heavy steps. I had already written a letter to Grandma, but this time I couldn't bring myself to hide everything.
Grandma, the school fees have to be paid next week.
I stared at that sentence for a very long time.
Then I added:
If there's really no money yet, I can take a break from school.
I had just begun folding the letter when I remembered Grandma's face. I pictured her fingers burned by oil, her bent back, and the old bracelet she'd sold to send me to the city.
I crossed out the last sentence.
Instead, I wrote:
I'll find a way. Grandma, don't worry.
Grandma's reply came sooner than usual.
Inside the envelope was money wrapped in newspaper. There was enough to pay for school and buy food for several days. Along with the money was a small note.
Don't find a way alone while you still have Grandma.
I read the note sitting on the floor of my room. For the first time since leaving, I cried without trying to stop myself.
The next day, I paid my school fees. After that, I bought the cheapest packet of rice and saved half for dinner. I wanted to call Grandma, but the public phone near the school was crowded.
So I wrote another letter.
Grandma, thank you for always being there.
This time, I didn't hide my fear. I wrote about the lonely room, about the nights when I wanted to go home, and about how often I pretended I was fine.
I folded the letter four times.
Before putting it into the envelope, I kissed the paper for no clear reason. Maybe some part of me hoped the smell of home would cling to it, too.
Grandma's reply arrived a week later.
Kiddo,
Home isn't a place that never makes you afraid.
Home is where you're allowed to admit that you're afraid.
If the night feels too long, imagine Grandma lying beside you. If you can't sleep, hold the edge of your blanket. Pretend it's the edge of Grandma's clothes.
I taped the letter to the wall of my room.
That night, I did as she said. I held the edge of the blanket and imagined our thin mat, the sound of rain, and Grandma's body always shifting so I could have more room.
For the first time since arriving in the city, I fell asleep without turning on the lamp.
Years later, when the letters had yellowed and Grandma's handwriting had grown difficult for me to read, I realized that she had never truly sent me money. She had sent me courage in a small envelope, folded four times, then told me to carry it wherever I went.
I didn't grow because I was never afraid.
I grew because every time I was afraid, someone reminded me that I didn't have to face it alone.
And whenever the world felt too vast, all I had to do was remember a small house, a thin mat, and an old woman who wrote with trembling hands:
If the night feels too long, go home in your memories. Grandma is still here.