Children come according to their mothers’ stories about them. A mother loads her child down with fairy tales, nothing more, and then sends him out to the world—either full and self-sufficient or else lacking and deficient forever. My brother, Sa’id, was born already bearing a story that told him he was unique and destined to shine, that he was the smartest and most beautiful. I, however, barged my way into life, uninvited, unwanted, the supernumerary son; which perhaps is why I clung so tight to the womb. Just the opposite of my three sisters, whom Thurayya claimed miscarried in their second and third months. And whenever anyone worked up the courage to ask her how she was so sure they were female, Thurayya would shiver with anger and swear that she was certain of it because of maternal intuition, the same intuition that made her realize even before she saw my face that I wouldn’t look like my brother or have any of his virtues. Sometimes, when life feels too much for me, I find myself replaying that moment when the midwife dropped me in Thurayya’s hands and she discovered that I was a boy. She, who said she wanted it to be a girl after Sa’id; I, who think she didn’t want anything at all after Sa’id. I picture her look of disappointment, irritation, and grief when she saw me, unplanned, unwanted, and unloved. A moment that I can’t remember, of course, but the scene is nonetheless as vivid as if seared into my flesh. I can even see the moment she first looked at me like a thing, some object she had no need for and for which she could think of no specific use. A tumor working its way into her system and threatening her existence. Yes. Thurayya treated me as though I were an intruder in her life. And I treated myself as though I were an intruder upon life itself …