In the beginning of their marriage, my father was indulgent with my mother. He even offered to let her continue her studies, in Jordan. She refused—perhaps she was still heartsick—and began her role as wife and mother. Even though she was living this life she did not ask for, when Jalal was born she breathed her soul into him and spoiled him terribly. She was as happy as she could be, given the circumstances, and to this day Jalal is totally her child, the only one of those three who always makes sure that people know he is half Palestinian. Even in the late sixties and early seventies, when he risked being beaten, or worse, he would speak proudly of his mother and her country. (When Jalal married a few months ago, he insisted that it be to a girl from our mother’s village, even though he has never lived in Nawara and has only visited a few times. At first my father refused, but Jalal insisted until my father agreed.)

For almost a year after Jalal’s birth, my mother was happy. She didn’t get pregnant again immediately, but my father wasn’t in a rush since at least he had a son. Two years and a week after Jalal, Latifa was born. Almost two years after that, Tihani was born. That’s when the difficulties in my family began. First, my mother got cancer. (The story I was told for years was that she was very sick and then she was well.) Then my father’s recently widowed mother moved in with them. In 1967, the Occupation began and my father lost a lot of his land. My mother lost her freedom to visit her family. My father became less generous with my mother, and she became less generous with her children.

“It was bad for me. So much was expected, selflessly, and my thoughts were stuck on what might have been,” she told me countless times. “I prayed so many times that if I could have one more healthy child, I would not try to have another one, and that I would be content with my life as it was. And then you were born, big and healthy and beautiful. You are my final blessing.”

When she had the energy, she gave me everything. She taught me the most complicated patterns in embroidery that she knew and told me equally complicated stories from her village as she was doing it. She took me wherever she went and explained everything to me. Best of all, she cuddled me endlessly, probably more than my brother and sisters combined. Latifa hated me for all these reasons: Latifa who drove my mother crazy; Latifa who had to deal with me every time my mother started to get sick; Latifa who hated me for the freedom I was allowed; Latifa who cared totally for my mother as she was dying.