I stop, rocking back on my heels. It’s the beginning of June. Graduation is in two weeks. I picture the package with my purple robe and cap and tassel tossed into our bedroom closet. Fatima and I have already picked out our sandals—she’s gone for red, and I’m wearing gold. I even get to stride up a second time for an English award. I kept imagining Ammi in the audience, her head tilted up, that pleased-but-I-knew-it expression on her face. Everything we’ve done—that tunnel of fright and the hectic years in a small apartment; Ammi’s anxious breaths in my hair, egging me on, sleeping on my bed, and reading my books; and then her figuring out how to be an Uber driver; the accordion file with our application growing fatter; her real estate books, and so much talk about the future, like that crazy lapping road I’d felt the other day—all of it led to this pinpoint moment, walking across the stage. If I graduated, I’d told myself, that was one more notch into the future. One more assurance that we were going forward, not back. Me breaking loose, finally, no more Ammi breathing her dreams into me.

“Yeah,” I say. “What about it?”

“You can still go, right?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?” But my voice sounds too bright as I swipe my MetroCard and push through the turnstile.

I’m digging for my key when my phone dings and shows an unfamiliar number: Jersey City. Then I remember: Mona.

But Mrs. Flannery is suddenly right next to me, glaring through her eyeglasses, which gives her an owlish look. “Where is your mother?” I can hear that old-fashioned principal voice, suspicious. Her quilted robe is snapped to her neck, but it’s off by one, giving her a cockeyed look. Everything about her—the yellowed edge of her collar, the scent of stale rose and talc—makes me sad and furious. It’s as if she’s what’s standing between me and my normal life. Whatever that is.

“I’m sorry, I have to get this—”

“Where is she?” she repeats, and takes a step closer. Her eyes are a cloudy gray green, weak. She makes me feel pinned with fright.

I swallow. “She’s working.”

“I see what’s going on! Your mother isn’t there! I saw, in the night.”

The phone bleats. “Please, Mrs. Flannery. I have to get this.”

“Criminal!”

“Please,” I beg.

“She’s a criminal. You all are!” She shuffles off.

The phone has quieted in my pocket. Mrs. Flannery has slammed her door, clinking the chain on the other side. I’m so relieved Kamal is on a playdate with Amir. Once inside the apartment, I can’t stop trembling. Ammi always told me, She’s a lonely person. Her daughter never visits her. She’s letting it out on us.