Sunday morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, soft and golden, catching the edge of the honey jar.
Mia sat at the table, shoulders slumped, her mango porridge untouched. She poked at it like it might answer her worries.
Lavender was curled in her lap, purring so loudly her whiskers trembled, but Mia didn't even notice. That was the first sign—when she stopped petting the cat, something was up.
"Your porridge's getting cold," I said, leaning against the counter.
She jumped a little, blinking. "Aom texted. We're making elephant crafts at her house today." Her spoon clinked against the bowl. "But… what if I'm bad at it?"
Mom (Ann) smiled as she set down a plate of warm coconut buns. "Remember the card you made for Grandma last Christmas? You glued your thumb to the googly eye and cried for ten minutes. And she still hung it on her fridge."
Mia's lips curved but didn't quite reach a smile. "That was Grandma. She loves everything I make. Aom's grandma sells real crafts. What if mine looks like a squashed mango?"
Dad (John) walked in, coffee in hand, hair still messy from sleep. "Hey, I'd buy a squashed mango elephant. Sounds like a collector's item."
Mia finally giggled. "You don't even have a collection."
"Yet," he said, grinning. "But when I do, your elephant's gonna be front and center."
I nudged her shoulder. "Aom liked your elephant keychain, remember? She said it was 'the cutest thing ever.' She's not gonna laugh at you."
Mia still looked doubtful. "Maybe I'll just… help her instead of making my own."
Mom handed her a small jar of roasted lotus seeds. "Aom's grandma gave me these last week. Bring them as a thank-you gift. And use that elephant wrapping paper. She'll love it."
That did it. Mia's eyes lit up like someone flipped a switch. "Yes! The sparkly one with gold trunks! I'll go wrap it now!"
She dashed upstairs, and Mom shook her head, smiling. "She worries fast—but gets excited even faster."
⸻
An hour later, we parked outside Aom's house—a small white place with fairy lights hanging across the porch and dozens of lotus pots lining the steps. Their petals glowed pink under the morning sun, the air thick with the smell of coconut and paint.
Before we even knocked, Aom opened the door. "You're here! Grandma made coconut cookies—still warm!"
Mia hesitated at the doorway, clutching the jar so tightly her fingers went white. "Um… these are for your grandma," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "My mom said thank you for the seeds."
Aom's grandma appeared behind her, her hair silver and tied in a neat bun. She was holding a small wooden elephant—its trunk curled, tiny yellow flowers painted along its sides.
"Ah, the mango girl!" she said warmly, in Thai. Aom translated, laughing. "She remembers you from the market—you bought three honey mangoes and ate one on the way home."
Mia flushed bright pink. "I was hungry!"
"Hungry is good," Grandma said. "Come. Crafts are ready."
⸻
The living room table looked like a rainbow exploded on it—colored papers (some sparkly, some plain, one printed with tiny mangoes), glue sticks that smelled like strawberries, and a mountain of yarn in every shade imaginable.
Aom immediately grabbed a sheet of blue paper. "I'm making a flying elephant! See, I'll use this white yarn for clouds."
Mia hovered over the pink paper pile, eyes darting between the scissors and the glue. She bit her lip. "I don't know how to start."
Grandma sat beside her, placing her wooden elephant on the table. "See this scratch on its trunk?" she asked, pointing. "I messed up three times. Too short, too crooked. Finally, the fourth one worked."
"You didn't throw it away?" Mia asked softly.
"Why would I?" Grandma smiled. "The wrong turns make it mine."
Something flickered in Mia's eyes. She picked up the scissors, tracing an elephant shape with her finger first.
Slowly. Carefully.
Snip.
A piece of paper fell away.
Then another.
Her hands trembled, but she kept going—until a sharp tear broke the air.
"Oh no." Her breath caught. The ear had ripped right off. "I ruined it."
Aom froze mid-cut. "It's okay—"
But Mia's eyes shimmered. She turned the torn elephant over, her lips pressing tight. "I knew I shouldn't have done this."
The room went still. Even the fan above seemed to hum slower.
Grandma leaned forward, voice calm but steady. "Look again," she said, taking the elephant gently from Mia's hands. "You didn't ruin it. You just made it listen better."
"Huh?" Mia blinked.
Grandma smiled. "Big ears, small ears—it's still an elephant. Maybe this one just listens harder."
Mia stared at the paper, and then, slowly, a laugh slipped out. "It does look like it's listening."
"That's the spirit," Aom said, grinning. "Mine looks like a flying potato. We're both artists."
The tension melted. Mia glued the ear back—crooked, but proudly so—and picked up the mango-orange paint.
Brush in hand, she painted in small, careful strokes. Orange body. Yellow belly. Brown freckles on the ears.
"It looks like a honey mango," she said softly, her voice steady again.
Halfway through, she knocked over the glue, splattering it across her shirt. She gasped. "Oh no—again!"
Aom burst out laughing, handing her a napkin. "Craft badge! My pants still have glue from last week."
Mia laughed too this time. "Then I'm officially in the club."
They spent the next hour painting, gluing, giggling. Aom's yarn cloud collapsed twice, and Mia handed her a piece of pink paper.
"Use this instead—it's a sparkly cloud now," she said proudly.
By the end, the table looked like chaos—paper scraps, paint streaks, cookie crumbs everywhere—but Mia held up her finished elephant, beaming.
It had big ears, one slightly torn, eyes uneven, paint smudged on its side.
And somehow, it looked perfect.
"Grandma said she'll put it on her market shelf," she whispered to me on the way out. "Next to her wooden elephants. She said mine's the happiest one."
⸻
When we got home, Mia ran straight to the kitchen, her mango elephant clutched in both hands.
"Mom! Dad! Look!" she shouted, breathless. "It's done!"
Mom knelt, tracing the crooked ear gently. "It's perfect, sweetheart. These ears are my favorite—they look ready to hug."
Dad took it, pretending to squeeze it. "Whoa, this elephant gives great hugs. Can I borrow it tonight?"
Mia laughed, snatching it back. "No way! It's going on my nightstand. Next to Mr. Trunk. He needs a friend."
⸻
That evening, I found her sitting cross-legged on her bed, brushing Lavender's fur with an elephant-shaped brush.
The mango elephant sat on her pillow, catching the last bit of sunlight through the window.
Mia hummed softly—a tune I didn't know, but it sounded happy, like sunlight trapped in sound.
"You still think it looks like a squashed mango?" I asked.
She shook her head, smiling. "No. It looks like me."
Lavender hopped up, sniffed the elephant, and rubbed her head against it.
Mia laughed, picking it up, hugging it close.
"I think I found my thing," she said. "Not just mangoes. Making stuff. With friends. Stuff that's messy, but real."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "You did."
She turned toward me, eyes bright. "Tomorrow—can we make more? For Tao and Lila? Tao would love a manga elephant—with a straw hat like Luffy. And Lila's should have mango spots!"
I grinned. "Sure. But no glue on the bedsheets. Mom will end us."
Mia stuck her tongue out. "Fine. I'll craft on your side of the bed."
Outside, the mango tree rustled in the warm wind. The sky was deep orange fading to pink, the same color as the elephant's ears.
The light spilled across her pillow, catching on the little paper figure—its uneven ears glowing like soft lanterns.
She didn't need to be perfect.
She just needed to be Mia.
And in that light—warm, gentle, alive—she already was.