I knocked lightly on the door before I stepped inside. My mother was already seated at the kitchen table, a small pot of tea steaming between us and a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth that smelled faintly of warmth and home. She looked up, and her face softened as if she had been expecting me all along.

I set my bag by the counter and slid into the chair across from her. The table was worn in the middle from years of elbows, knives, and plates, yet to me it felt almost sacred. She poured the ...