“I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open anyway,” Neelab said. “Sweet dreams, Sitara. Good night, Auntie.”

“Good night, Neelab. Get some rest. Sitara will be up bright and early looking for you.”

Neelab circled her arms around my mother’s waist and squeezed before slipping into the hall.

I turned away then so Neelab wouldn’t give us away with a pert smile. Once she’d left, my mother turned her attention to me.

“Let’s hurry. You know,” Mother whispered conspiratorially, “your Kaka Daoud can’t butter his bread without your father’s input.”

“And Boba can’t butter his bread without yours. Maybe you should have an office next to Kaka Daoud’s as well.”

Mother beamed, her smile the finishing touch on her elegant appearance. She wore a navy blue dress, belted at her trim waist. The hem fell just past her knees and the sleeves flared slightly at the wrists. My father had purchased the material, a delicate brocade, during his most recent trip to Lebanon. The design was my mother’s own, though the stitching had been done by the same seamstress who had made her wedding dress and every other gown she owned. She’d paired her shift with tan sling-back heels and a simple necklace, a calligraphy of Allah in eighteen-karat gold. She had her hair pulled back in a twist and had softly teased her crown to add an extra inch of height. I touched my mother’s face, marveling at the way her hazel eyes shone from beneath the inky liner she’d used on her eyelids. Was it envy, vanity, or just a surfeit of love to want to be as beautiful as one’s mother?

“Sitara, what is it?” my mother asked. She smoothed her hair, betraying a flash of insecurity. “Is something wrong?”

“No, Madar-jan. Not at all. I was just thinking.”

“About what?” she asked.

I stole a kiss from my mother’s cheek. According to my father, the Qur’an teaches us that heaven lies at the feet of mothers. I roamed the palace feeling anchored by my mother’s presence nearby.

“When are we going home?” I asked, missing the indulgent mornings when Faheem and I would sit on our parents’ laps in our pajamas. We came to the palace too often to feel like guests, but that still did not make our room here feel like home. “I think Faheem’s grown homesick.”

“After the weekend,” my mother assured me. “Your father’s been so tied up in meetings the past few weeks, but things will get better soon.”

“Is it very bad?” I asked. The meetings had been getting longer and longer for a time. Then they became very short, and some ended with the slamming of a door and feet pounding down a hall.

Mother cupped my face in her hands.