“I’ll call you later. There are people waiting for the phone. He reminded me that he still has those pictures and I’m worried he’ll do something stupid. I’ll see what I can do here. God be with you,” she said, and hung up.

I wasn’t concerned about the photos. There was no one to show them to, because my family had all left the country. I was more worried about money. I still hadn’t been able to find a job and what I’d withdrawn from Abu Moathe’s account was spent on a down payment for a car. I had tried to use his card in Amman, but it didn’t work. Now I knew why.

A week later, Mama was making final adjustments on the bride’s wedding dress.

“Mama, I’m sorry I was rude to that bride. I didn’t mean to interfere in your work. It’s just that she has unlimited money and she is still happy to cheat you. The dress is fit for royalty.” My words weren’t nearly adequate to express the love and torment I felt.

“You have to let me do this my way. I’m just trying to keep the rent paid and lights on,” she said, squeezing my hand lovingly. I knew she didn’t say that to remind me that I needed to get a job, but I felt it nonetheless. I had been the breadwinner and caretaker of the family. That was my identity. But there was nothing for me in Amman. Mama had a unique skill, but administrators and beauticians were a dime a dozen.

I looked at Mama’s face, that thing in my chest squeezing again, and it occurred to me that she had been around my age when she was forced out of her home in Palestine. She had come to Amman then too, before journeying on to Kuwait with my father. It seemed to me that fate was inherited, like eye color. I wondered if she had felt the same disorientation that now ruled my days. Had it been all she could think about—the incomprehensibility of forced, permanent displacement?

I threw my arms around her and buried my face in her neck. “I was stupid before not to appreciate your tatreez, Mama. I promise I am going to find work. I want you to rest.”