Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

Jonah got right to sketching as soon as he walked in, probably because I'd held him up at work. His long legs were stretched out, one foot resting
against the stool.
I whispered, "Hey, can you find me my bag? It’s like one of those woven ones?"
He pointed upward with his pencil, "It's in the sunlit room on the south side. Mom tucked it away for you."
"Really?" I was about to ask more when his mother appeared from the kitchen.
She put an arm around me, saying, "Lana, I just put the soup on to simmer. I've set up a room for you upstairs. Come on, see if you like it."
I quickly waved my hands. "Oh, thank you, Ma’am. But I'll be heading home soon."
"Why? So your father can keep beating you up?" Jonah chimed in without even glancing up.
"Stay until you're better," he insisted. "I don't want folks saying I bully kids."
His mother agreed, "Yeah, stay a couple of days to get your strength back."
I was taken aback, like I'd just hit the jackpot, leaving me a bit dazed. With a gentle nudge, I found myself heading upstairs.
The room was tidy and charming, with its own wardrobe and desk. The bed had fresh floral sheets. A chubby little succulent sat on the windowsill,
soaking up the sun. Maybe it was the cozy vibe, but even my mustard yellow bag on the couch seemed to shine.
I stood there at the door, amazed.
"It's a bit plain," Jonah’s mother said apologetically. "I was in a rush. A girl's room should have more personality. We'll spruce it up while you're here."
No, it was already wonderful, almost too good to be true. I'd never lived in such a lovely room; my memories were more of that dark, cramped storage
space. I probably should have said no, but I just couldn't bring myself to.
At dinner, Jonah’s mother set down the last dish right in the middle of the table. Three dishes and a soup, all looking fresh and appetizing. Not a
jumble of leftovers. The bowls and plates matched, white porcelain with sleek black edges. There weren’t chips or cracks.
I remembered reading that you could tell a lot about a family's life and attitude by their dinner table. Now, this simple setup was exactly what I craved,
yet it always felt out of reach.

Jonah’s mother told me to dig in and treat it like home. I nodded, keeping quiet. I tried to pace myself, eating slowly, but still polished off the food Aunt
Marie had put on my plate. The nearest dish, roasted chicken with mushrooms, was just inches away, but I didn't reach for it.
Once the food's gone, grabbing more would be selfish and bad-mannered. That's what my parents taught me.
I didn't want them to think poorly of me too. I busied myself with the remaining rice, pretending to be occupied. I couldn't stop for fear they'd notice my
discomfort. I scolded myself for not eating slower just now.
Finally, even the last grain of rice was gone. I slowly placed my chopsticks on the edge of the bowl.
Jonah’s mother looked at me with concern, "Lana, is that all you're eating? It's not much."
I nodded, "I'm full, Ma’am."
"Are you sure?" she asked, worry etched on her face.