She didn’t come to visit.
She came to nap.
Helia walked through the house, past me, past the noise of the day,
and lay down next to Petra in her room,
as if Petra’s room had always been hers too.
When she left, after the nap,
I didn’t ask how she slept.
I didn’t ask why she came.
I already knew.
She came because my house holds.
Because this house doesn’t hover.
Because her body knew it would be safe to go still.
She didn’t check in.
She didn’t ask permission.
She lay down.
Because I am harbour.
I didn’t declare it.
I didn’t decide it.
It became true when people around me stopped asking where they stood.
When I stopped explaining the space I hold.
When I stopped needing to be soft or strong or spiritual.
I went still.
In that stillness,
they placed themselves.
It’s not just Helia.
It’s Petra, who brings her without hesitation.
It’s daughters who feel free to fall asleep mid sentence.
It’s the absence of performance in their bodies.
It’s the quiet between them.
And the rest that follows.
No entertainment.
No caretaking.
Just space. Regulated.
That’s harbour.
And they know.
Even my husband knows.
He doesn’t call it harbour.
He returns.
Again and again.