Soraya was right. Mirrors. My memories were fragments, reflections of what I needed them to be to survive. Dawoud’s pained admission cracked open the day I burned his quilt. The shatter echoed into my body, ringing in my bones. Essiya was no better than Sylvia. I had always been this broken. This selfish. Sylvia was just a reflection of the worst parts of a girl I had buried.
