Ela lived with her grandmother, Babcia Mila, in a house that smelled of boiled turnips and regret. Her father had left for the city three winters ago, promising to send for them. The only thing that arrived was a postcard with a blurred picture of a tram, and on the back, in pencil: Sorry. Maybe spring.
“There is no cabbage.”
Babcia Mila looked at the dumplings. Then she looked at Ela. Her eyes were very bright. holydumplings
“Everyone needs a dumpling.”