I press Mona’s number. “Hullo!” she greets me cheerily.

“It’s Rania.”

“Oh yes! So sorry about taking so long. I work a long shift and I always forget to charge my phone. What can I do for you, Rania?”

I’m taken aback. I’d worked up this conversation so many times in my head I thought for sure she knew who I was and what had happened to Ammi, and would offer me a solution. I thought she’d sound familiar, like family, folding me in.

“I…My mother told me to call you. I’m looking for my uncle. Salim?”

There’s a long pause. Too long, drawing between us. My ribs tighten.

“Rania, the thing is this—”

“Do you know where he is?” I interrupt.

Again another pause.

“Please,” I beg. “My mother—”

“Where is your mother?” she asks sharply.

It’s my turn to pause. I haven’t said it out loud to anyone except for Fatima. If I don’t say it, maybe it isn’t true. “She’s—they’ve taken her into detention. Immigration.”

“Oh dear.” I can hear the sorrow in her voice. “Poor Sadia.”

No! I want to shout. Ammi is never Poor Sadia. Never. She would hate such words used about her. It takes all my effort not to hang up. Tears fleck thickly on my lashes and I blink them away.

“You are alone?”

“My brother is with me.”

“You have a brother?” She sounds surprised.

“Yes. Kamal.” I add, “He was born here. He’s eight.”

“I see.” She seems to be weighing something. In the background I can hear plates clattering. This is my life, I want to say, and you’re putting dishes away?

“It’s messed up,” I say. “This whole country is messed up right now.”

She laughs. “I see you have Sadia’s spunk.”

“Ammi always said I more take after Abu. He was tall.”

“Is that right?” There’s a funny tone in her voice.

The way she comments—skeptical, questioning—makes me tense. We don’t talk about Abu too much, not with anyone outside me and Kamal. And after our first year or two, Ammi began to avoid anyone from back home. I remember there were phone calls in the middle of the night, and someone who knew Abu would come visit, a fellow journalist, to see how we were doing. They were always kind and funny, asking about school and friends, staring at the framed photo of Abu Ammi keeps on a shelf, and offering to help. She politely served them snacks and chai but she never called them. Maria Auntie, your friends, she often told me, they’re your new family.

“So,” I say. “My uncle. Salim?”

“Right.” She clears her throat. “He came here…I think it was two, three years back. At least that’s what I’d heard. He had a job, for a bank. He was married, you know—”