I don’t see how any of Ammi’s ideas about how welcoming America is could still be true. Lidia’s beside me, grimly leaning into the wheel as she squints into the sun, then glances over at the GPS on the dashboard. We decided Kamal shouldn’t come—he’s playing video games with his friend Amir. It hasn’t been easy keeping him calm. He’s back to his old nervous habits—chewing on his shirt collar until it’s frayed. I worry that he’ll start wetting his bed again, leaving those ragged brown rings on the sheets. Without being too obvious, I’m always sniffing when he passes me, trying to catch the telltale stink. Last night as I was drifting to sleep, I heard footsteps, and then he was climbing into bed next to me. His bony ankles slid against my shins.

“Where’s Ammi?”

“She had to go away.”

“But why?”

I paused, thinking. “They just have a lot of questions for her.”

“What questions?”

I drew a blank. “Long questions. She has to write them up. Longhand. They don’t even have a computer there. And…” I kept going, as if rushing through a writing assignment for English, one invention topping another. “She’s taking a class. You remember her real estate classes? Well, this is an extra one.”

Even in the dark I could see the skeptical crease in his brow. Still he folded into me, his belly warm against my spine, his breaths going slow until I could tell he’d fallen asleep. But I could not.

So many lies.

When Ammi shuffles into the room, my usually proud mother looks tiny. The ugly uniform they have to wear, like nurses’ scrubs, swims on her. The pants hang off her hips. The V of the shirt droops to show her clavicle and the wiry muscles of her neck, since she’s clipped up her unruly hair. It’s rare to see her without earrings, necklace, her daub of shiny lip gloss. Her face—gaunt, as if there’s a slice of flesh taken under each cheek. Her mouth twitches. Is she going to cry? Then she lifts up her chin. I do the same. That’s us: proud, furious, while inside we’re weeping-scared.

“Oh, Ammi,” I whisper.

“Rania.”

We are silent, trembling just a bit. Then her mouth pinches. “How’s Kamal? Is he all right?”

A sting of anger-hurt. She’s always worrying about Kamal more. He’s the baby, the miracle born in this country, the citizen, our little sapling we hope will help us take root here. “He’s okay.”