“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

Her words land like a stone in my chest. I hate that she’s filled with a fear like that.

“No, but I’m tired of hurting like this. It’s too much.”

Relief flashes in her eyes, and she reaches over, brushing a hand over my hair like she did when I was a boy. “Okay. That’s what I needed to hear.”

Her hand falls away. “Now, get up. Take a shower. I’m going to make you something to eat. You may not be ready yet, but you still have to show up for yourself.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. Just leaves the room with the same steadiness she entered, footsteps fading down the hall, leaving behind coconut-scented lotion and the echo of her strength.

I stare at the doorway long after she’s gone.

Show up for myself––easier said than done.

But I owe her that. And perhaps I owe it to Magnolia too. The man she fell in love with wouldn’t rot in bed. He wouldn’t disappear into silence and dust.

A few minutes pass, and I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting cold floorboards. The effort is monumental, but I do it.

For my tinā.

For the tiny flicker inside me that hasn’t gone out.

I shower, standing under the hot spray until my skin turns red and my lungs stop tightening with every breath. I trim my beard, towel off, put on some clean clothes.

Tinā doesn’t say a word when I come into the kitchen. She gestures to the chair and sets a plate in front of me like it’s any other morning. But this is not my usual breakfast.

It’s panikeke, warm and golden, still fragrant with coconut oil. A heap of oka sits beside it along with fried eggs, sauteed taro leaves, and thick wedges of papaya. A traditional Samoan breakfast. The kind that feeds more than your body.

There’s no way any of this came from my fridge. I haven’t bought groceries in weeks. She had to have brought everything with her.

That’s who she is. A woman who shows up. Who feeds you when you’re too broken to ask. Who reminds you where you come from when you’ve forgotten how to stand.

As I pick at the food, she moves around the kitchen like it’s hers. Clearing empty cups from the counter. Wiping down surfaces that don’t need wiping. Refilling the fruit bowl, straightening the salt and pepper shakers like symmetry might fix what’s broken in me.

Tinā says nothing. Doesn’t push. She moves with purpose––a quiet, steady love disguised as tidying up. It’s a love you don’t earn but shows up anyway.

I watch her for a second, then look back down at my plate. And somehow, keep eating.