Ente mol, she said, her voice full of danger and love. She said it again in our language: my daughter. Those two words in my mother’s mouth: a branding iron. We are going, she continued, let us have an end to this talking back, okay? Don’t you make me call your father in here— Listen, woman, someday I will come to your grave and do orma and all. But that is it. Her slap popped my ear. Hand cradling my face, I bared teeth back at her. I was Susan after the conference chair had been thrown. Widely I smiled. He was not good to me, I said, as calmly as I could manage, since some form of
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