We approach the university. The lecture halls and dormitories are mostly hidden from view, as are most buildings and offices. We weave through roads crowded with cars, taxis, buses, and bicycles carrying one to two passengers. A Coca-Cola sign hangs on a light post.

Today’s sun is gentler than yesterday’s. Waleed points out the Afghan Parliament building and, across the road, the hollowed-out Darulaman Palace, which had been home to the Ministry of Defense when I was a child. Once stately as a New York City museum, the palace now has gaping holes in its walls, cratered interiors, and heaps of rubble in its halls.

“Waleed-jan,” I say, as we stand on the edge of the grounds, “this is the view the members of Parliament have in their sessions.”

“Yes, sister,” Waleed replies in Dari. “But if they see it or not, everyone in Parliament knows what has happened here. You cannot hide the sun behind two fingers.”

Mom and Clay watch me protectively as I step in and out of the car, as if I’m made of glass and at risk of shattering. They share quiet, concerned glances that I pretend not to see.

“I want to see my home,” I say. Waleed nods. I describe my home’s location by landmarks, which is how everyone, including Waleed, relays addresses in Kabul. He navigates the city expertly, and soon enough we are at the very place where the general had stopped his car and questioned Mom and me all those years ago.

Two boys come down the street, the taller one holding a soccer ball with frayed seams. The gutters on the side of the streets teem with waste. Waleed walks in step with Clay and two steps behind me.

The farther along the street we walk, the more disoriented I become. A third of the homes are gone. Another third are riddled with holes or look like the ground has shifted beneath them. Some are new constructions. We walk one block and another. I cannot remember.

“It should be here. This feels like the place,” I say, imagining the rooftop my father had leapt upon and the balcony where my mother grew a small herb garden. I look carefully at each house. The shapes are all wrong, nothing fits my memory.

Mom has her hands on her hips.

“Gosh, just look at this,” she whispers.

“This neighborhood suffered very much during the civil war,” Waleed explains.

Clay bricks crumble beneath my boots. My throat tightens, and no amount of practiced breathing can release the tension.

I see a scrolled stone banister post, and the first step of a staircase that once led to a second floor. The spiral reminds me of the soft curls of my mother’s hair, of the way her wrists twirled when she danced, and in a flash I know where I am. I take a sweeping look at the devastation, at the remains of my childhood home.