I don’t know who’d arranged for the printing of those booklets, who’d chosen those few words, but I do know that that last word spoke everything
When I was in eighth grade, a teacher asked us to write an essay about what we feared most. I wrote that I feared being told in the middle of class that I had a phone call
What if I would need medical intervention in order to bear more children? What if I would never have another child?
Mounds of laundry — and even little humps of them — in the hamper create an itch that needs to be scratched, umm, washed
“He’s much more okay than you remember. He’s changed.” She says this because I look skeptical. Duvi, that skinny boy, that branded child?
By the time I came onto the scene, the extended family had grown so large that we spilled out of Aunt Vali’s small apartment
