Nesrin Ayhan

When I first saw them, they were huddled under the awning of the old bakery, wrapped in a single blanket like two petals clinging to the same stem. It was early spring, the kind of Izmir, Turkey, morning that carries the damp chill of the sea, and they were shivering. I remember one of them looked straight at me, not begging, just holding my gaze. That was enough.

The apartment next to my house had been empty since the last Dutch couple left. My children had helped me renovate it some years back, hoping I’d finally earn a little from all the extra space. "It’s a goldmine, anne," they said. But gold has never impressed me much.

I brought the girls home that same day. They hesitated at first. I don't blame them. Who trusts an old woman with trembling hands and a shawl that smells like nane and rosewater? But I set two plates down anyway, and we ate in silence. That was three years ago.

They're still here. Their Turkish is now better than my own at times, with all their slang and quick city words. I’m seventy-five, and my memory is not what it was. They tease me when I forget where I left my keys. We laugh about it. Sometimes, we cry too — mostly when there's news from Aleppo or when a letter doesn't arrive.

My children visit less often now. They say I'm being taken advantage of. That I’m letting kindness chip away at the walls they built for profit. Maybe they're right. Maybe I am foolish. But I also remember what it was like to pack your life into a cloth bag and cross the border into Greece, barefoot and nineteen. That fear never really leaves you.

They could go back now, technically. But who decides when "safe" is really safe? Not the politicians. Not the headlines. Until they choose to leave, they’ll stay here. With me. In this old house that smells like lentils, jasmine, and hope.