My lids burn, hot with grit. I was so ready to be angry, but this is the most honest my mother has ever been. She left because of me. To keep me.

“Am I in danger?”

“Since we settled here, he did not fight me. But he used his influence.” Her eyes are full, shiny. “Even with Salim, my own brother. That’s why we never saw your uncle when he moved here. Fawad poisoned how they saw me. A bad mother.”

“Uncle said you came to him for help here. But he couldn’t do it.”

“Is that what he told you?”

I nod.

“Ah, these men, with their pride! Fawad had loaned my brother money at home, for a business. Poor Salim, nothing ever quite works out for him. That’s why he emigrated—because his business went bust. And he was indebted to Fawad.”

“And now? What happens to us?”

“Now—if I am deported back, if we are—Fawad will get you. Of that I’m sure. My life with you will be over.”

“But I’m almost eighteen. A grown-up.”

She sighs. “He has his ways. He will make everything very hard for me. For you.”

I swallow. “Kamal?”

“He will stay with me. He is Naved’s.”

“But we’re a family!”

She smiles tiredly, and puts her hand on the side of my face. “Yes, we are. Always.”

That night, I lie in my old bed, clenched against my mother’s whole story. Now I understand: her iron pride, her secrecy. Maybe when she went for her interview, the judge sensed it was not the whole truth. She would not beg. She would not fit into a neat box. I roll over, punch the pillow, and try to get some sleep.

Early hour: the sky looks like streaks of milk. I slip from bed, flip open my laptop, and send the emails I’ve been avoiding. Then I sneak out of the apartment, buy a café con leche, cradling the cup as I sprint up the concrete stairs to the park. An old man is doing tai chi, his arms moving like a waving octopus. Another man, shirtless, is walking backward. A little dog sniffs at my feet until he’s yanked by his owner and trots away. Otherwise the park lies still.

From my pocket I pull out a phone card. I put in the number from the scrap of paper I’ve been carrying with me. The bleating of an overseas call—then it is picked up. “Hallo?”

“Hello, Uncle. It’s me, Rania.”

“Rania! What a surprise! How are you, sweetie?”

“I’m good. Ammi’s back.”

“Oh, I am glad.”

We chat about my cousins, about him living with his in-laws, and then our talk dwindles, awkward. Finally I ask, “Uncle, when Ammi decided to come here, what happened with my father?”