Last time Ally saw the photo, it had been above the fireplace in a small row house in Boston—the house where her mother died. To her lasting shame, Ally had always felt closer to the smiling young woman on the mantel than to the woman being consumed by cancer in a darkened bedroom. At some point during her mother’s illness, Ally convinced herself that there’d been some mistake. How could the woman in the photo—her mother—be the same melancholy patient who smelled of cold sweat and despair?

Sometimes, Ally’s mother would call for her, extend her twiggy, trembling fingers, and stroke her daughter’s cheek. Ally would hold her breath, waiting for the chance to slink off to the living room, where she’d stare doggedly at the photo of the woman by the river, her real mother, smiling, with the wind in her hair. Where was she going? Ally wondered. Could she come too?

When her mother died, her father packed them up and moved them to Australia to be near his parents. Somewhere along the way, the photo vanished. When she asked about it, her father winced.

“It must have gotten lost.” His voice cracked. “Now, go outside and play.”

He looked so pained that eventually Ally stopped asking about the photo. Or pretty much anything to do with her mother. If she did, her father’s shoulders would crumple, and soon he’d sidle to the fridge, pull out a beer, and start drinking. She’d find him at four o’clock in the morning, passed out on the couch, David Bowie turning circles on the record player, empty beer bottles on the floor.

Ally learned not to ask questions about her mother, but she didn’t forget the image of her by the river, her long, shining hair loose in the breeze. More than twenty years later, Ally sank to the floor of her father’s bedroom and held that photo close.

Her father’s front door creaked. Footsteps clomped down the hall.

“Anyone home?” called Tom.

“In here,” she called back.

“You’re not going to believe what happened at work—” Tom stopped short at the sight of Ally crouched by the closet.

“Oh, babe.” He squatted down and hugged her. “You shouldn’t be doing this alone.” He squeezed her tighter. “Do you want to go home and I’ll finish this?”

Ally shook her head and passed him the photo.

“That’s your mom, right? She looks so happy.” He flipped the photo over and read the inscription: Tigris River, Baghdad, followed by looping initials Ally didn’t recognize. Abruptly, Tom sat back on his heels.

“That’s so weird,” he said.

“What’s weird?”

Tom took a deep breath.

“I got offered a deputy ambassadorship today.”

“Deputy ambassador?” Ally gasped. “That’s a huge promotion. Where?”

Tom handed back the photo.

“Baghdad,” he said. “They want me to go to Baghdad.”