Awa dropped to her knees beside Isatu, wrapping both arms around her as if her body could create a shield against a decision. “She is still our daughter,” Awa pleaded, voice cracking. “She needs guidance, not rejection.”
Lamin looked at Awa with a sadness that was almost tender, then poisoned by pride. “If she leaves, she leaves. If you go with her, you choose shame as well.”
Awa froze. She loosened her arms slowly. That release hurt more than the sentence that had erased Isatu from the
Isatu stood up on shaking legs, packed two dresses, a sweater, her exercise books, and a small framed photo of her and Awa from last year’s Tabaski. She walked back into the courtyard with her bag. Lamin did not look at her.
“Go,” he said.
Continue on the next page:
