But I was exhausted from lack of sleep and the constant breastfeeding. She refused formula and I was reduced to feeling like an animal bred for its milk. On some nights, I slept with her in the guest room, napping in between. She would wake up and drink from me noisily, clutching at my breast with her little hands, sometimes biting my nipple with her gums, waking me up. At dawn she would try to sit up, chattering in her own language while I stared at the languid swish of the curtains until my eyes closed and Omar came to take her downstairs. I would sleep again, then stumble downstairs to see them both, locked in a circle that sometimes made me feel like an outsider.

How she laughed when she saw her father, how he kissed her toes and watched her squirm in glee, how his face lit up when she curled her hands around his face. How she sat obediently nodding her head when he showed her how to stack wooden blocks, how she screamed kah kah kah when he tickled her tummy, how she shrieked with joy when he picked her up and threw her into the air. How alike they were: Like father, like daughter. Was I ever like my father?

She would cry when he had to go to work, she would wail and stretch her hands, refusing to let him go. How he would stand there talking to her saying that he would be back to play with her at the end of the day. How he would kiss her, untangle her arms and legs around him, hand her to me and then reach to kiss me quickly before gazing lovingly at her.

Did he still love me? Or did he love her more?

I was tired and still fat; I had not lost the extra weight. I avoided mirrors and tight-fitting clothes. I wore loose, flowing shirts and skirts, sometimes contemplating my pregnancy clothes. Every day was a fat day and there was never enough time. The glow I had from the pregnancy had long abandoned me. My hair was listless and dry; my face dull, pimply. I had no desire to put on make-up, a dress, heels, make myself look good for him. Sex was infrequent.