How many times would I be forced to prove my allegiance?
The room is silent. Ima has come over for a visit at the most inconvenient of times. I stand, my back against the window, watching Youssef, who looks as though he has lifted his face from a water basin. Ima sits on the chair, her hands clenched.
“But Youssef, the caravan is set to leave tomorrow,” I whisper, my teeth nearly grinding my bottom lip.
My husband’s head snaps up, a look of panic upon his face. “What should I do?” He tugs his sleeve in despair.
Ima opens her mouth, her square jaw jutting the same way my husband’s does. Her son.
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