For a long time, I thought Dweller was my story of coming home.

That was true, but not the whole truth.

It came from my Nene.

She never taught me joy with words. She showed it in the way she lived.

Washing blankets on the terrace became play. Simple meals became special when she named them something silly, like Chocolate Ooti.

Childhood illness shaped the way her body moved, but never the way she gave.

Later in life, when her memory softened, her kindness did not. She still waved children over with a familiar smile and said, “Chak chaminasi lak-o.” Come, come. Let us eat together. Even when names slipped away, generosity remained.

Growing up, I learned that love like hers did not ask to be noticed. You simply felt it, like sunlight.

When she passed, my heart broke open. In that quietness, something became clear. The joy I wanted to share with the world was not mine alone. It had been placed in me slowly, through years of small moments.

What stays with me is the way Nene lived. How ordinary moments can feel light. How showing up daily matters more than being seen.

Today, when I see women working with fruits and herbs they have known all their lives, I recognise that same steadiness. What they prepare carries something you can feel, because it has been lived.

If you ever find yourself holding a cup of Dweller tea, I hope it gives you a pause.

Something familiar. The kind Nene made space for every day.

- Eli