My son looked me in the eyes and said, ‘We don’t have room for you anymore. You need to leave.’ So I did.

The three of them stood awkwardly. My son rubbed the back of his neck. “We were thinking… maybe you could come home. We could make room.”

I held his gaze. Steady. Quiet.

Then I said: “No.”

Not angry. Not bitter.

Just sure.

“This is my home now.”

That evening, after the last customer left, I sat under the soft glow of lanterns strung above the patio. I watched the stars ripple in the river below.

I thought about all the years I had folded myself into corners for others.

But no more.

They say revenge is best served cold.

But mine?

Mine came warm—in delicate cups, scented with jasmine and memory. It came with sesame cookies and music, under the laughter of women who had finally been seen.

And best of all?

It tasted sweet.