One night I stood in the doorway of the kitchen watching Antonia dry the dinner dishes. She turned just briefly to smile at me before putting the plates into the cabinet and rubbing the silverware dry. The drawer slid shut with a quiet thump. Antonia folded the towel in half, hung it from the rim of the sink, and stepped into the living room. Then she sat cross-legged on the floor and motioned for me to join her. I positioned myself, as I always did, so that I could both see and reach the apartment door. Tilly, wearing earrings made of iridescent glass beads that dangled from her lobes, sat on the armchair.

“You are safe here,” Antonia said twice, first in English and then in Dari. She had changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of soft cotton pants and a plaid shirt. Strands of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail framed her face and gave her a youthful appearance. “And if you trust me, I will do anything I can to help you. Do you understand?”

More and more, I was beginning to see that Antonia was like my father in her work: she was a peacekeeper, and a most trusted adviser. In the conversations I overheard, I could see that the embassy depended on her. If she was in such command over the phone, certainly she must be one of the most important officials in the embassy.

Like a critical director on a movie set, Tilly gave a subtle nod for me to continue.

“Yes. I am okay here,” I said slowly, clumsily.

“Okay. That’s good,” Antonia replied.

I took a deep breath, then put forth my big request.

“I want to go to my house, please.”

“Your house?” Antonia repeated, treading carefully. “Where is your house?”

My mind raced as I second-guessed my own plan. Did I really dare reveal where my family had lived? Every clue could help people figure out my identity, and I was still not certain that was a wise move.

Antonia began naming neighborhoods. When she named the quiet neighborhood at the base of a mountain, my foot began to tap out a nervous rhythm.

“That’s good. Your house is not very far from here.”

But a house is like a watermelon rind, important only because it holds a sweet and tender fruit.

“Tell me about your family,” Antonia said carefully, gently.

My eyes fell to the floor.

“My family . . . my family is in Arg when . . . only me . . .”

I felt more like a girl confessing a crime than recounting one, my face hidden in my hands. Antonia placed a gentle hand on my forearm.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

And then she said nothing, though she looked like she was holding back a thousand questions. Instead, she rose and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.