I flew away, one day, leaving you behind; you were not quite sixteen. There were ten years between us, and we shared a room for many of those years. And because of the age gap, you didn't get under my skin like the others... I remember the day you were born, and the jaundice lights they put you under, and your pitiful newborn cries. I couldn't stand to hear them and ran out of the room. Silly girl. Our oldest brother named you. He wanted you to have a strong name, like the woman who defended the Prophet in battle. And so it was. The little piece of flesh that came home with us from the hospital was called Nusaybah. You were Mom's sixth, and you were our baby as much as hers. Our old albums are peppered with photos of us carrying you, and you screaming your head off. One day, after she'd started you on solids, Mom asked me to put your baby food in a bowl of hot water, so it would be a suitable temperature. I was puzzled by the request, and when I asked for clarification,...
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