But then, right as we are walking out of the hospital doors, a woman stops us. Hey! she says, pointing a finger at Mama’s face. Hey! she repeats, the word like a stone thrown, You don’t have to wear that anymore. The cold air from outside hisses in through the half-opened door, and it no longer feels festive. Her finger moves from Mama’s face to point to her head, to her hijab. You’re in America now. You’re free. Mama does not say anything; she grips my hand. The woman looks from Mama to me and back at Mama.
