For years, I had lived in fear that she would find the talismans I’d hidden around our flat, mistake them for trash, and throw them away without my knowledge, thus nullifying their effect. Or, worse, confront me about them. “What the hell is this?” she would say. I, having imagined this precise moment, would be ready. “Looks like your old perfume bottle.” “What’s it doing behind the stove?” “I have no idea.” “I could have sworn I threw it out years ago.” “Huh.” That was meant to be my innocent, ignorant closer—because what else was there to say? “You actually did throw it out, Mama, but I dug
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