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I obey, gazing around the rest of the kitchen. Dark splotches mar the light walls, echoing the state of my room, while cobwebs cling to the corners. It seems the whole house could use a little care.

My attention is brought back to my grandmother as she sets two steaming plates on the table. She eases herself into the chair opposite me, prompting me to eat. The stuffed peppers have a rich tomato flavor, with a subtle hint of spice. Even better than my mom’s.

“This is delicious,” I tell her.

Karmela’s expression remains solemn. “I wanted to meet you for a long time,” she says, speaking slowly again so I can understand. “Thank you for writing to me.”

I dip my head in acknowledgment. I had written back after finding her old stack of letters, even though for all I knew, she had died in the time that had passed since her last message. I waited anxiously for weeks, wondering if it was all a fever dream, if I could even withstand the grief of another loss. When her reply finally came, inviting me to Tolba, I sat at the kitchen table for a full thirty minutes, stunned, debating what to do.

I thought of my mom. Even though we had grown less close over the years—seeing each other only once a month or so—her death hollowed me out. I suddenly missed everything about her: her Croatian cooking, her signature lavender scent, soothing and comforting. I even missed the way she used to nag me. About the boxy clothes I sometimes wore, the fact that my marketing job didn’t pay enough, that I ate too much takeout. She had invited me over for dinner the Sunday before she died. I told her I was too busy, finishing a work project.

The next day she was gone.

Suddenly my life was filled with regret. Why had I let our bond loosen? Why didn’t I visit her more? My apartment wasn’t that far—less than an hour without traffic. She was the most important person in my life, yet I’d lost her without even saying goodbye.

I also thought of my dad. How little I knew about him. My mom’s life had always felt like a book with the first half torn out, marred by the tragedy of his death. This was my chance to learn more about him too. To discover more about my roots, the side of me I never knew.

In the wake of my mom’s death, I moved through my days with my shoulders always slumped, a phantom haunted by regret. At work, I ignored requests from coworkers to talk or eat lunch together, preferring to be alone with my grief. I’d felt too guilty to reach out to my good friend Lily, knowing she was busy settling into her new home in Fresno with her newborn son. Thinking of how she looked at him, I understood the simple truth about family, that no bond runs deeper than blood.

Karmela was my only family left, the key to unlocking all that—the mystery of my heritage, of my mother, my father.

In the end, the decision came quickly. There was no other option: I had to come.

“Thank you for . . . to invite. Invitation,” I correct.

“Of course. You are my granddaughter.”

Even though she spoke of my mom scornfully in her letter, I wondered if she felt any sadness over the news of her death. “How are you?” I ask, hoping she understands I’m asking about more than just today.

A shadow of something crosses over her face—grief, maybe, or something more bitter—but it swiftly passes. “Good. Now, I want to know all about you. You are twenty-nine years old, correct?”

I nod in response.

Her gaze flicks down to my left hand. “Are you married?”

I nearly cough out a mouthful of food in surprise. Far from it. My disinterest in serious relationships was always a point of contention between me and my mom. In fact, it was the reason I began spending less time with her, to avoid her prying. She wanted me to find someone to settle down with, but I preferred to keep things more casual—it was easier. Safer.

But now my stomach clenches, wondering if Karmela would also be disappointed.

“No, I’m not married,” I finally say.

Karmela tips her head. “Boyfriend?”

My face flushes. “No.”

Karmela’s lips pinch together. “That’s alright. Maybe you will meet someone while you are here.”

I smile awkwardly, relieved when the conversation turns to other topics, my journey, what I do. Even with my poor Croatian, Karmela’s attitude remains polite, albeit reserved. I can’t help but wonder what my mom had against her. Why hide her from me? Why deny us this relationship?

Though the questions climb up my throat, I swallow them back. I don’t want to mar our first meal together with a potentially painful topic. Instead, my gaze crawls to the decaying marks on the walls. Beyond the window, the sun descends, deepening the corners of the room. In spite of the warm meal, a chill snakes down my spine.

I stiffen suddenly as a dark blur slips across the entryway, moving toward the stairs. At my reaction, Karmela turns. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. Probably only Rex.

When she faces me again, she takes my hand. The abruptness of it startles me, and I almost pull back. But then she smiles, and I relax, soothed by the ghost of my mom in her features.

“Oh, Petra,” she says. “I’m so happy you’re here.”