Last night, Amira was supposed to spend the weekend with her biological dad, Jamal. My wife, Zahra, dropped her off after school Friday, and everything seemed ordinary. Then Saturday evening, my phone chimed with a short message:
“Hey… can you pick me up?”
I grabbed my keys and went straight there. When I pulled up outside Jamal’s building, she was already waiting, backpack half open, arms wrapped around herself, eyes glued to the street like she had been tracking every car that passed.
She opened the door before I’d even fully stopped.
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