I rock back on my heels. If I blurt out where she is, what we want, I’m afraid he’ll just send us packing. Or will he? He’s still, rubbing his jaw, as if recovering from the surprise. “It’s complicated,” I say.

He gives a wary bob of his head. “Chalo. Come in.”

The house feels odd, in a state of disorder, like Uncle: suitcases are stacked in the hall and open boxes near the dining area, the walls stripped bare. He indicates the living room. “Please. Please sit down.” Then he asks us to wait and he disappears upstairs.

I can hear two voices, low and whispering, with a few phrases popping out. Typical, I hear. And this boy? Just like Sadia. We cannot have this now. Carlos, who has sat opposite me, mouths, Should I go? but I shake my head. This doesn’t feel like a family reunion at all.

A few minutes later a woman glides down the stairs. She is slender, her thick hair clipped back, her eyes heavily kohled, and she introduces herself as Shaima, Uncle’s wife. She seems young, shy, but also intimidated, glancing at my uncle for guidance, then smiling broadly at Kamal. “Hello there! You wish to give Auntie a kiss?”

Kamal, who’s been sitting quietly next to Carlos, obliges her, but he is stiff and awkward. “Uncle too,” Shaima instructs, and Kamal does his duty, and then quickly scoots back to me, pressing his head against my side. I stroke his hair. My stomach is hurting something awful. I don’t know where to begin.

Fortunately, Shaima has gone into the kitchen to put on tea and keeps chattering about this and that—how empty her cupboards, how the children are true power nappers, so it might be a while before they wake. Uncle is staring at Kamal and me, up and down, as if trying to place us. After Kamal crams his mouth with biscuits, she suggests he might want to play outside, where there’s a swing set. I take this as a strong hint—Uncle and Auntie want to see me alone—and so Carlos takes him by the hand, through the sliders and outside. For a second, I wish I could join them, be a kid.

“So, Rania,” Uncle begins. “You can imagine what a surprise this is. I have not spoken to your mother in a very long time. How is she?”

There’s a raw roughness threatening to spill out of my eyes. “Not great.” I add, “She’s in detention.”

“Detention?”