Amira sat on the back porch, her legs tucked under a fleece blanket, watching her niece Mia draw chalk shapes on the patio stones. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the garden. She could hear her sister inside, humming along to some quiet old tune while dinner simmered on the stove.
It had taken weeks for Amira to get here — not physically, but mentally. After the burnout from her job, the panic attacks, the tightness in her chest that wouldn’t let up, her therapist suggested one word she hadn’t expected: retreat.
Not in the dramatic, spa-week kind of way. But a step back. A pause. A chance to rest among people who loved her.
Her sister had welcomed her into the house like it was a reset button. “No pressure here,” she said. “Just rest. Breathe. Heal.”
So Amira did. She went on quiet walks with Mia. Took her new anti-anxiety meds consistently. Let herself cry when she needed. Wrote lists when the world felt too big. Listened to the rain without reaching for her phone. Let the moments stretch.
And now, sitting here with the scent of rosemary and lentils drifting through the air, she felt something close to peace.
Later that evening, Mia climbed into her lap.
“You’re smiling again,” she said.
Amira kissed the top of her head. “I’m starting to feel better.”
“Good. You’re one of my favorite grownups.”
Amira laughed — not just with her mouth, but from somewhere deeper.
She wasn’t “back to normal.” She might never be. But she was learning how to live in the soft hours, where rest and love and small steps counted for everything.
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