When I was a child, summers meant Grandma’s farmhouse—her guava jam cooling on the windowsill, her steady hands guiding mine, her soft humming as the porch swing creaked in rhythm with the cicadas. That place was a heartbeat. Then, one summer night, I was told to stay in my room while the adults argued. After that, we never went back. Grandma disappeared from our lives without a word, and silence filled the space she left.
