“If I recall, I took that photo the first time I met your mother. A group of us had gathered at the promenade along Abu Nawas. We were celebrating the launch of a new literary magazine. I still remember the slogan: ‘Radical art and radical politics.’” She glanced at the door, then lowered her voice. “It was published by the youth wing of the Communist Party.”

Ally blinked in surprise.

“A communist magazine? In Iraq?”

“It was communist for a while, then socialist, then democratic socialist, then back to communist again.” Miriam redoubled her pacing. Watercolor horses fluttered in her wake. “The British colonialists were gone. We’d overthrown their puppet king. For a brief moment, we believed we could create a new world.” Her chin jutted forward at an angry angle. “We were young. We didn’t realize that moment of daylight was just the eye of the storm.”

Ally struggled to digest the news.

“I had no idea my mother was involved in politics.”

“I don’t know either. It’s possible she was just there because of Yusra.”

“Yusra?”

Miriam stopped pacing.

“Your mother never mentioned her?”

“She didn’t get a chance. She passed away when I was very young.”

“Did she?” Miriam cocked her head to the side. She gave Ally a strange, probing look. “You really do look just like her.”

A worm of anxiety wriggled in Ally’s chest. Had Miriam remembered her mother was American? Enemy number one. Miriam pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked a tall cupboard. The shelves were a jumble of string, glue pots, and fabric scraps, like the brightly colored lining of a bower bird’s nest. Muttering to herself, Miriam rifled through a shoebox.

“Here.” Miriam thrust a bony hand toward Ally. A photo quivered between her fingers. “This is Yusra Hussain.”

Ally’s heart leaped. It was the nurse from her mother’s photos. She was out of uniform, leaning back in a swing, long hair streaming behind her, wearing that same tell-it-as-it-is smile. A two-story house with gray and white trim sat in the background. Beyond that, purple-flowering tamarisk trees framed a line of silvery water.

“I took that photo in Yusra’s garden on Eighty-Second Avenue, by the river,” said Miriam. “Her mother served the most delicious baklava I’d ever eaten.”

“So this is Yusra, my mother’s friend.” Ally held the photo tight. If Miriam hadn’t been watching, she would’ve pressed it to her heart. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“Yusra can’t help you,” she said slowly. “You should leave it alone.”

“What do you mean?” said Ally.

“Some things are best left in the past.”

Ally frowned. “That’s what my father always said.”

Miriam held out her hand for the photo. Reluctantly, Ally passed it back. The older woman put the photo back in the shoebox and locked the cupboard.