My five-year-old nephew refused to sit on the couch, curling up on the cold floor instead. When I tried to lift him, he screamed, “My bottom hurts.” I gently raised his shirt and froze—there were scars, far too many. I called my daughter-in-law. She laughed mockingly. “My father is a judge. What do you think you can do?” I dialed 911, believing I was saving him—never realizing I had just started a war.
The winter sun filtered through the lace curtains of my living room, casting patterned shadows on the Persian rug—a rug I had bought in Beirut in 1982, back when the sound of shelling was my morning alarm. Now, my mornings were filled with the whistle of a tea kettle and the chirping of cardinals in the snow-dusted oak tree outside.
