I didn’t leave my home to chase a better life, I left to survive. One night the sound of bombs was too close, my daughter was too scared, and my mother whispered: “Go. You’re young. Save her.”

I remember locking the door of our house, knowing I might never come back. I left behind my father’s olive trees, the neighbors who watched me grow, the street food vendor who called me “little sister.”

In Belgium, I found safety. But safety does not erase grief. It took years for me to sleep without guilt, to smile without shame. Yet now, when my daughter reads Dutch books to me at bedtime, I realize: I didn’t just escape war, I chose life.