Uncle puts up a hand. “It’s true. It wasn’t what I expected. The place was very cut-throat. I expected something else.”

Pride. This soft man—underneath he has the same stubborn, hard pride as Ammi.

“When it came time for my renewal after three years, usually a routine thing, my supervisor said they wouldn’t be able to re-sponsor me. There were some problems. Word had come down that they needed to hire an American. Even though I’d built up the whole department.”

I remember Lidia’s office, the phones ringing off the hook, the noise of so many people, their lives abruptly put in limbo.

“We waited awhile, thinking the situation would resolve itself. But the way things are going in this country—”

“Salim,” Shaima warns. Clearly the talk is usually much sharper, more bitter.

“We decided we might as well leave.”

The children are restless, so we clear the table, load the dishwasher, and push open the sliders so Uncle and I sit out on the patio. Shaima has disappeared to do a load of laundry. It’s early evening and the tree leaves are lit up like bits of gold foil. Carlos has taken over with the kids, just the way he did at the shelter, letting them chase him around the yard. Whoops of laughter spin in the air. The neighbors are barbecuing and the smell of charred meat drifts over. I watch them in a blur of sadness. This scene seems so soft, so normal, and I ache to just remain here, to never leave.

With my heart beating wildly in my chest, I start. “You see, Uncle, with Ammi in detention, we need someone to sign for us.”

“Sign?”

“It’s a form.” I twist around and pull it from my backpack. “You can say you’ll be in charge of us.” I’m still holding the folded paper, between us, so I add, “You don’t really have to. It’s just a signature. We’ll go back to the apartment, wait for Ammi to get out. Lidia says it will happen. Any day now.”

Uncle does not say anything, but gazes off at the children streaking across the yard, squealing with laughter as Carlos flings himself down on the grass. They are clambering on top of him—his stomach, his legs, even his face, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Then I see the sad shadows on Uncle’s face. My heart is breaking. Because I can tell: he is going to say no. This was why it was so hard to bring up my request. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to come right up against his back, turning away from me. Exactly what Ammi used to say: They turned against me, Rania. All of them.

“Is it because of my grandfather?”

Uncle looks puzzled.

“Nana,” I continue. “He was so mean to Ammi.”