As quickly as I was getting used to California is as quickly as I left. Dad announced that he had an opportunity to come back to Miami and mom was missing her own mother. In any other circumstance, I would have relished the opportunity to go back home, but not now, not anymore.  Just as I was getting comfortable, making friends, and fitting in, it was time to go back home. I had been in three schools alone in the sixth grade, and as if this wasn’t enough, I had to deal with being one of the only Jewish children in the last two schools. Now, just as I had felt accepted and found my place, my dad was going to move us again. Everything was all going to come to a crashing end.

I was broken, hurt, and tormented that once again I would have to try and fit in and make my own way. This would be my second middle school that year and right smack dab in the middle of the 8th grade. I had become immersed in the California culture, the California way of thinking. Life seemed carefree. For a while, I had even forgotten about the abuse. I wasn’t sure how I would find my way back home, nor did I want to. I just wanted some stability and love.

I said all my goodbyes, a blubbering, slobbering mess. There were hugs and wails and the type of crying out one does when they are being separated from everything they ever loved. My mother tried to soften the blow by throwing me a surprise going away party. It was wonderful but quickly turned into a night of a million tears for a large group of 13-year-old girls. Just more goodbyes that I couldn’t bear.

I didn’t know what was awaiting me on the other side, and I knew I wasn’t going to be moving back into our old neighborhood. But the one thing I was coming back to was my beloved grandmother, Adelaide. Not that we called her that, to us she was Nanny or Nana Abbe. That came when I was little and couldn’t pronounce the “d” in Addie. From then on, it just stuck amongst all the grandkids.

While I was away in California, Nana Abbe would write me letters, hundreds of them. This was back before the time of email or the internet, so pen to paper was the only option. When things were bad, I looked forward to Nanny’s letters and packages. She was always sending us something! Books, stuffed animals, candies, and chocolates. That woman spent the little money she had on her four grandchildren, the four little girls she loved.

I could tell when she was having a hard time and missing us terribly because her pain would be reflected in her letters and her care packages. Nanny was not a person that was ever angry or upset. She was forever loving, forever grateful and a soul that just kept on giving. Her sadness became love in those letters and boxes. It didn’t substitute for her being there, but it provided a connection to her, the person I missed the most. Those boxes and letters were a lifeline for me, a hand towards home, a remembering that she was still there missing me.

So I tried to focus less on missing my newfound friends and instead focused my attention on coming back to my beloved Nanny. The great news was that because our house was not going to be ready in time, we had to live with her for a couple of months. It’s as if God opened the heavenlies for me to make up for the pain I felt in leaving California. I knew it was going to be hard trying to fit in again, but at least I had my Jewish community and I had the great love of my life, my Nanny. This was welcomed and planned no doubt by the God who I was still questioning. Why had my life become so fragmented? Would I ever be able to stay in one place?