Dism

It was enough.

The second time, she was fourteen. Her mother had just sat down at the kitchen table, phone still in her hand, face the color of dishwater. “Your grandfather,” she said, and then stopped. The rest of the sentence didn’t come. Instead, Mila felt the word rise up from somewhere behind her ribs—not spoken, but present. Dism . She didn’t say it aloud. But it sat between them for the rest of the afternoon, a fourth presence in the room, while her mother made tea that went cold and Mila pretended to do homework. It was enough

Dism , she thought. And then she let it stay. “Your grandfather,” she said, and then stopped

Mila turned off the light. She lay down in the dark, alone in the too-big apartment, and she let herself feel whatever was there. She lay down in the dark