I went to brunch yesterday. Neighborhood thing. Thought it might be… good. Meet people. Always trying to, you know, do that. My son, he’s always saying I should get out more. “Maman, you spend too much time with your books.” He means well. He means it like his father would have. A good life, a full life. But what is a full life, really? It was at the Murphys’ house. Big place. Immaculate. Kids everywhere, tearing through the hydrangeas. Not a criticism. Just an observation. I brought my lemon cake. Always a hit at the library potlucks. Or it used to be. No one really noticed it this time. Not that I was looking for praise. I mean, I don’t even… whatever. The conversation, it was all… school districts. From the moment I walked in. “Oh, you’re in the Northwood district? We almost moved there, but the gifted program just wasn’t robust enough for Anya.” Then someone else chimed in about the AP classes at Westview. And the after-school clubs. And the PTA. It went on. And on. And on. I tried to join in. I did. I said, “I used to be a librarian, you know. I saw a lot of children come through. So many different stories.” Mrs. Peterson, I think it was, she just smiled. A polite, empty smile. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said. And then she went right back to discussing magnet schools with the woman who teaches… something. Math, I think. I just stood there. Holding my plate of untouched fruit salad. Listened to them talk about property taxes and catchment areas and the pressure to get into a good college. Like that’s the ONLY thing. The absolute ONLY thing that matters. Their children’s futures, yes, I understand that. But it felt like a relentless drumbeat. A competition. Who had the best schools, the brightest children, the most… optimized lives. My son, he went to a good school. Not a fancy one. A solid public school. He studied hard. Got into a good university. Now he’s a software engineer. He’s happy. I think. He has a good wife. Two children. But we never discussed school districts with that kind of… intensity. My parents, they just wanted us to learn English. To work hard. To be… safe. To not go hungry. That was the dream. I found myself drifting to the edge of the patio. Watching the kids play. A boy, maybe seven, he was meticulously lining up toy soldiers on the grass. Not running, not yelling. Just… creating. And I thought, *he* doesn’t care about AP classes right now. He just cares about his soldiers. That’s a good thing. A quiet thing. I had a very quiet life. Still do. My books. My garden. My walks to the market. No grand achievements, perhaps. No prestigious committees. No battles fought over curriculum. Just… reading. Thinking. Being. Is that not enough? Is that so… small? So worthless? To simply exist, to learn, to observe the world without trying to conquer it? I left early. Didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Just slipped out the side gate. No one noticed. I walked home, the sun already dipping. The air was cool. And all I could think about was the quiet of my own apartment. The quiet hum of the refrigerator. The quiet turning of pages. And how sometimes, the quietest things are the loudest. Not in a good way. Not always.