After dessert, she floated over to our table. She seemed completely at ease, unfazed by my presence. I felt waves of euphoria tinged with fear. Anxiety rising and crashing inside me. She greeted each person individually with two kisses, sometimes a third, never actually touching her lips to their cheeks. She had perfectly crafted fifteen-second conversations with everyone she encountered, effusively complimenting dresses and offering remarks on weight loss, asking about kids and summer travel. As she was making her way around the table, closer to me, a man with a dark ponytail and thick mustache approached her from behind, sneaking up and wrapping his arms around her. She squealed with delight as she turned to see who it was, placing a deliberate hand on his chest and leaning in to hug him. Who was this guy—another lover? I’d never seen him before, not at any of our other events, and I immediately pictured them in bed together. I felt my chest swell, my throat quivering. He placed a hand on the small of her back and led her away to his table, shattering all my hopes for the two of us communicating.

I tried not to keep watching her but she was constantly present in my peripheral vision. When I noticed her walking toward the bathrooms I stood up, tossed my napkin onto my plate, and followed her. I turned the corner and called out, “What’s going on?”

She swung around and her hair twirled like a whirling dervish. “Are you crazy?”

An electric current shot through my stomach. “What?”

“Honestly, what are you doing, following me?”

“Why are you acting like you don’t even know me?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she derailed, pushing past me and back out to the party. I stood there, fuming. “You bitch!” I yelled out loud to myself. I was sick of staying quiet, of keeping things secret. I am not an object—I’m not just Laila’s daughter. I exist!

I went into the bathroom and stared at my reflection, trying to gather strength. I returned to the party but when I walked into the room my eyes blurred with tears. I ran to the coat check, which was empty since it was summer. My mother chased after me. “What’s the matter?” she asked, and I turned around, collapsing into her. I couldn’t help myself. But it wasn’t safe to tell her what was wrong, and she never insisted on knowing.

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