As she had already made clear by not questioning my presence each night, Ampy was loyal to her boss’s privacy. She didn’t respond.

The following night, after it was dark, I drove by the house. The lights were on, and I peered into her bedroom window. For a moment, I thought I could see two silhouettes moving behind the curtains. Was her husband home? As I drove closer the guard stepped out of his booth. I rolled down my window. “I’ve been here before,” I said, as if he didn’t know.

He shook his head. “Sorry. No guests today.”

I rolled the window back up and drove away, defeated.

In the morning I called in to work and told my boss I was still sick, that I probably had mono. I lay on my bed with Lucy at the foot of it and stared at the blank white ceiling. Our abrupt ending left me feeling abandoned, and the pain of it was unbearable. I needed an explanation. I needed to know that it wasn’t my fault.

A few weeks later, my mother received an invitation for a gala benefiting Palestinian youth. Suspecting that the ambassador’s wife would be there, I asked if she would bring me as her plus one, and she agreed. She even let me borrow a dress.

We arrived early, and from where we were seated I could see the entire room. I watched the main door as people entered, waiting for her to appear. Finally, I saw her. My stomach somersaulted. She wore a long dress decorated with traditional Palestinian embroidery, a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders. I observed her greeting people, tilting her head back mechanically and laughing, the tips of her fingers pressed to her clavicle. Every so often she’d pop over to her own seat and take polite nibbles of whichever course had just been served.