I know enough about vital signs and blood markers to realize she would be gone in a day or two. I said a final farewell by her bed and went to the airport to leave her memory—and days of condolences and the stream of well-wishers that arrive after Muslim burials—to the daughters she raised, whose love for her was not complicated. I left them to grieve together, without the distraction of the estranged older daughter in America and the curiosity that always provokes.

Alone with my grief and regrets, I stared at the Facebook message Aminah sent to me—“Hi”—the only written note I ever received from the woman who gave me life. I realized for the first time that she had been a powerful driving force in so many of my decisions and achievements—driven by a desire to hurt her, to make her see me, make her proud. She is present in all three of my novels, in the complicated mother daughter relationships of my first two, then simplified in this novel.

I am a daughter of many women, and I want to salute two of them here: Mame and Aminah. May they rest in peace and power and love.

To the individuals whose love sustains me—my daughter, Natalie Abulhawa, and my dear friends here and around the world: thank you and I love you. A shout-out to my furry babies now and departed: Luca, Lily, Lavar, and Shami; Gipsy and Midnight; Tommy and Emerson; Char, Toby, and Max.

Finally, I want to thank you, dear reader. I am not a writer without you and a novel cannot fully become, or find its place in the world, without your thoughts and interpretations of it.