Kaja’s dad lived on a wide street in a building that looked run-down on the outside but inside was all wainscoting with dark wood and gold and green wallpaper that was ancient and water-spotted. There were round push-button wall switches to turn the lights on and off, pressed-tin ceilings, and a footed bathtub below a brown stain in the shape of a dragon. When I said it was the most beautiful apartment I’d ever seen, Paul laughed and said that I needed to get out more. Saturday was Indian food and a science fiction movie, just like Kaja had promised. That night she and I shared the bed instead of sleeping on the floor, because Kaja said sometimes there were rats. Paul sang us a bedtime song that he said was from Ghana. He had a lousy voice, and this made getting sung to weirdly better, since he was singing clearly because he wanted to give us something and not to show off. When he asked us if we needed anything before he turned off the light, I realized that I did.

My mom’s in jail, I told him. Paul left the doorway and stood beside the bed. When he spoke, his voice was powerful and gentle at the same time. A lot of people say they want to know the truth, he said, but they aren’t strong enough. That’s why I respect your mother, Samantha. She can handle what she sees: it’s other people who can’t.

The next morning was the first time I saw the word “abortion.” Kaja and I were eating Paul’s pancakes, which were as thick and fluffy as Grete’s were thin. To eat Grete’s pancakes, you would spread a layer of jam over the top and then roll them up to take a bite, but Paul’s meant maple syrup that oozed out when you pressed down on them with your fork. Would you look at that, Paul said, showing me the Arts section of The New York Times, where it read: “PICTURES ON VIEW; Photographer Pushes Boundaries in Brooklyn,” by Michael Stromlin.

Upon seeing my mother’s name in print, I kept looking down at my feet, surprised to find them still on the floor. Being a precocious reader, I was able to make out most of the words, even if I wasn’t sure what all of them meant. After praising Lillian’s street photography, Stromlin described “eight troubling but beautiful portraits of the photographer and her daughter in various states of undress that challenge the viewer and prick the conscience . . . one of which, entitled Mommy is sick, depicts the photographer bedridden in the days following an illegal abortion.”