The words came before I could stop them, but I couldn’t bear to say the words. There were so many things to say to her, and I wanted to say something, anything at all, but I hadn’t a clue as to how to begin. You know, Umma, there’s something I wanted to say . . .

I wish you would apologize to me for once in my life. About trampling on my heart that time. About giving birth to me this way, raising me this way, then deciding to push me away into a place I can’t come back from, into a world of ignorance and being ignored, I wish you would apologize for that. I know that what happened to me wasn’t really what you had wanted to happen, and I know it’s not anyone’s fault, I know that, but I—

—. . . I’ll never understand it.

—Understand what?

—I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I can ever forgive you for that. Ever.

—What is this child going on about?

I felt like I was about to cry. Quickly, I turned my head. I got up.

—Toilet.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and ran for the toilets. By the time my sanity returned, I found myself inside the wheelchair-accessible stall. I sat down on the toilet and took off my bag. I got out the stack of paper and held it in my hand. The twisted letters of my handwriting on the pages, his handwriting in red imposed over mine in black. I tore them in half, and in half again. I tore each separate piece into still smaller pieces and tossed them into the toilet bowl. The letters touched the water and dyed it red. When I flushed, the layer of paper on the water formed a swirl of confetti and disappeared down the hole.

I used to feel like I’d been given the whole world when I held him.

Like I was holding the whole universe.

Tears welled up but didn’t spill over. There had been plenty of time to cry. I flushed repeatedly until the paper was all gone. Gathering my wits, I picked up my bag once more. I opened the door.