Every event in our lives is a kick, light or heavy.

I remember my father was determined to show us the countryside of Beirut. Every Sunday, we were packed into our black Mercedes and driven about aimlessly for hours. We were not supposed to talk about anything other than the scenery or what we noticed about the inhabitants. Both Wystan and me were carsick so we would beg and plead to be left behind. If we argued in the car, or complained of feeling ill, he used to make us get off on the side of the road. Ten or twenty minutes later, he would come back for us.

But each time I was sure that we would never see him again. I couldn't stop myself from crying.

Wystan would then look at me and tell me that my braces were too expensive, the money he had poured into our education, all our books---why would he leave that behind?

We were a long-term investment; our father had to come back. Wystan then suggested that we hide. Once, tired of my crying, Wystan left me standing by myself, and wandered off.

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