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Took her to McDonald's and told her that the French call it le magdot.

I propped her up on a counter and read her the French menu items as she giggled into my shoulder.

Mummy, the French are so funny.

A few weeks later, we ran into a boy from her school. He said,

kukku elena, she waved kool at him, banged at me. Isn't that so funny?

Her secret laughter reminded me of my first glimpse of family life in the West.

I was nine and we had just escaped from Iran because my mother was a Christian convert and a postate.

My mother, brother and I, had been living in undocumented limbo in Dubai,

and when the migrant hostel closed without notice, we were taken in by a family of Australian

missionaries. On our first night in their house, we three retreated to our room and giggled as we

dissected their routines. We were grateful to have a comfortable room and a bed, but the family

seemed so strange to us. There was also a thrill in scrutinizing the habits of white people.

We didn't often get the chance. My mother's eyes went wide when dinner arrived,

plates of cold cuts, cold vegetables, and leftovers. Each night,

there's son Nathan, a boy my age, got his private time, then official tuck-in with each parent,

a bizarre ritual. I'd never been offered private time. My mother was in my business all the time.

In the hostel, she had slept in my bed. Nathan's closed door seemed to me so performative and

unnecessary. Did mothers in other countries close the door, count the minutes, and wait for their

...