At Bingham’s Table

Belonging earned, not given.

The journey led us to the Hiram Bingham train — a place for travelers with tickets, not trembling rescues. I was sure we’d be turned away. Yet there she was, seated at a white-linen table as though she had been expected all along.

Strangers smiled, waiters paused, and my four-pound co-pilot rested her chin on the linen with a quiet confidence that silenced every doubt. No trembling, no apologies. Just belonging.

In that moment, I realized something: belonging isn’t granted by permission slips or gatekeepers. It’s claimed by showing up, again and again, until the world can’t deny you’ve earned your place.

Twinkles had crossed a line that no one else could draw for her. From ribs showing to shoulders squared, from outsider to insider, from trembling to triumphant — her journey was complete.

And in her reflection, I began to see my own. Maybe I, too, could belong at a table I once thought wasn’t mine.