“Thank you.” He didn’t speak, but beneath me, he felt tense, building a wall between himself and my gratitude. I could hear the words he didn’t speak—don’t thank me. They were words he’d said hundreds of times. I’m not just saying it, I’d said, recognizing that the expression had little meaning given our backgrounds. All our lives, we’d been taught to express thanks—to our parents, to the church, to God, none of which had given me a fraction of what Zahariev had. I know, but I don’t need it. Not from you.
