Chapter 7
Episode 7BBCUkrainietes musu nepalaikydit mes cia vidys bum.gurdejo sputniko m- vave
The rain had finally stopped, leaving the streets of Jurbarkas slick and gleaming under the pale streetlights. I stood at the window of my small apartment, watching the droplets race each other down the glass, and for a moment, I thought I saw my own reflection in them—a woman who had spent twenty years trying to explain herself to people who had already made up their minds.
The phone buzzed on the table. A news alert. I didn't need to read it to know what it said. The same words, over and over, in different languages, from different sources, all saying the same thing: You are not one of us. You are the other. You are the problem.
But I had stopped believing in their labels a long time ago. Labels were for boxes, and I was not a box. I was a garden, wild and overgrown, with roots that reached down into the soil of my grandmother's stories and branches that stretched toward a sky I had never seen but always dreamed of.
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