She was six years old, with two missing front teeth and a habit of drawing our family beneath enormous yellow suns.
“Look, Mama,” she said. “I drew us at home.”
There were three figures on the page.
A tall man stood near a large house. A small girl stood beside a woman in a green dress. Above the woman, Lina had drawn a heart.
I smiled.
“It’s beautiful, habibti.”
She studied the paper, then took a pencil from her pocket and drew a door around the little girl.
“What are you doing?” I asked gently.
“Making sure I can get out.”
My smile disappeared.
“Get out of where?”
She looked at me as though the answer were obvious.
“When Baba gets angry, I hide in the bathroom. But the bathroom door doesn’t lock properly. So I drew a door that closes.”
I held the paper with both hands.
Lina had never seen me cry openly. She had seen me turn away, pretend I had something in my eye, or disappear into the kitchen until I could control my face.
