Then I notice a large manila envelope filled with old photos. In one, my parents are on a motor scooter: He’s got a mustache and is wearing a leather jacket and jeans. She’s laughing, leaning into his back. She looks so young, as young as me.

This was my future, Ammi often told me.

But what about my future? I want to ask.

My hand touches something smooth and square. An address book, with a little tab that snaps shut. It looks very old, the leather worn. Inside, in her very neat handwriting, are so many names. Some I don’t know. From years ago, back in Lahore. My family. To my amazement, they’re all there—my grandparents, her brothers, their telephone numbers and addresses, their birthdays. The same for her cousins. I wonder, would it be so bad if we went back to Pakistan? Then I remember what Ammi always told me: You have no idea what it’s like to be a girl in that family, Rania. They do not bend and they do not forgive.

All this time, she’s carried these bits from all the people who turned their backs on her. Next to Salim, she wrote: Favorite color: blue.

Part of me wants to rip these pages out. Who cares? None of them ever helped us.

But she told me to find Mona. I remember hearing about Mona. She was a family friend who lived down the road from my grandparents, called Ammi when she settled in the US, not long ago. I page through the old names. Then I find it, in the back. No last name, just a phone number. When I call, a woman chirps on the voice mail message, “Mona here. So sorry I’m not here to take your call. I’m sure I’m on a long shift. Or not wanting to talk to you. Just kidding! You know what to do!” When the beep sounds out, I grow shy. “Mona, this is Rania. Sadia’s daughter. Um, do you think you can call me back?”

I slip the photo into my pocket, put everything away, then realize the laundry was probably ready a long time ago. As I’m heading downstairs, I remember I never picked up the mail. It’s nothing special—mostly flyers, a welcome from Hunter College. A small card twirls down to the floor. I pick it up: David Gonzalez. Caseworker. Child Protective Services. Scrawled across: Contact me ASAP.