I wake up early and head to the kitchen for coffee, already anticipating Ate Tessie’s arrival later this morning. But when I turn the corner, I stop.

Instantly, I know it’s her. Of course it’s her. Ate Tessie is sitting at the head of the table, calmly drinking a cup of coffee.

Those eyes — the same smiling eyes I would recognize anywhere. Time has changed us both in a hundred ways, but not those eyes.

I walk toward her, and we fall into each other’s arms — smiling, crying, holding on like we’re trying to make up for fifty years in a single embrace.

She isn’t supposed to arrive until 10 a.m., but here she is, already settled in as if she’s been here for hours — and she has. They arrived at 2 a.m., while I was fast asleep.

She came with her son John, her pastor, and the pastor’s two daughters — all of them traveling together to bring her to me.

And then I hear the rest of the story:

Ate Tessie and Onieh stayed up half the night watching Korean dramas, laughing, giggling, swapping stories, catching up as if they haven’t seen each other in years. The house was full of voices and excitement.

I didn’t hear a single thing. Not the arrival. Not the greetings. Not the laughter. Not even the commotion of people coming in with bags in the middle of the night. Twenty‑five years of night shift and earplugs will do that.

And now here she is, her eyes still smiling the way they always did

This is how March 31 begins

The anniversary celebration will come later — the food, the noise, the family, the joy. But that belongs to the next chapter.