the terrified seven-year-old me—shaggy short hair, blue shalwar kameez—started following me around like a shadow. Now she won’t leave me alone. She wants to make herself heard, she wants to be comforted, and she wants to know that I will protect her. She wants me to tell her that she doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. And she wants to tell me to not be upset with my mother. To forgive her. Whenever a feeling of anxiety or fear creeps into my thoughts, I gently console the seven-year-old instead of the adult. “Don’t worry—it’ll be all right,” I say. “I’ll take care of you.” And I
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