Iris
By dinnertime, Miles is bouncing with energy from his nap. We take our seats at the dinner table, digging into a saucy pasta dish with glistening chicken breast and vibrant vegetables. Miles happily twirls his pasta around on his fork, his tongue stuck out in concentration.
For a few moments, we just enjoy the quiet, listening to the faint sound of classical music playing on the radio and the city bustling below.
It feels like we never left home in Bo’Arrocan, although it’s much quieter there. The coastal community where I raised Miles is more peaceful, the scent of seaweed and salt drifting through the air. It was a nice change from the hustle of Ordan.
But even after five years in Bo’Arrocan, I missed the noise of Ordan. Now, sitting here at our dining table, I feel
