First, there was despair. The image of her mother's regretful backwards glance filled Aziza's every waking moment, her own screams muffled by the magnitude of that look. Aziza sat in the corner of her shared bedroom, too stunned for the sobs to come. Without her mother's gentle caress, Miriam jan's soothing voice, and her brother's playful laughter, the world was foreign. Everything around her seemed to be a terrible nightmare, abandonment shaking through her bones. Reality struck like a whistling bomb, the truth flooded in like soldiers during conquest.

All that untitled resentment, all that clear hostility, had finally made its impact. Rasheed, as she had learned to call him, was the dictator of the house, and sacrifices were made with only his ideal in mind. His sneers had paved this path for her, rotten seeds that had sprung into lifeless trees. Worse yet was her mother's unenthusiastic will to intercede. She had let him do this. She had not stood in his way, had not caught Aziza as Rasheed threw her to the wolves.

Next, there was an ease in the pain. The lessons, taught everyday, took Aziza's mind off of her hardships. They let her drift to castles full of numbers and to planets far away. Words came flooding out of Zaman's mouth, his eyes lit up with joy and his hands swirling in the air with excitement.

"Now these slabs you see here, those are rock. They are deep underneath our feet, and they move around, colliding and rubbing together, causing a great shaking in the ground. They do this because of convection in the liquid layer beneath them, and they never stop, always building tension and letting it release."

Aziza was nervous, all the time. Constant questions filled her head. Will they ever come back for me? How long will I be here? What if I never return home?

The food wasn't plentiful, and luxury was still an otherworldly concept, but it was better than starving. Aziza tried to justify her mother's decision. At home, food was running out, and Aziza knew that she was the last person who would get her share. Maybe the orphanage was the best place for her. Maybe her mother had sent her away out of love, maybe—

No. If her mother truly knew what was best for Aziza, she would have let her stay with them.

There, at the orphanage, Aziza learned what is was like to be a woman. She watched the streets through the window, saw the beggars, the burqas, and the beards. She saw the lone cloaked figures as they shuffled by. If caught by the bearded men with guns, they would be beaten, sticks and belts raining down on them as they tripped and tumbled trying to escape. Aziza no longer saw the fashionable scarves, the long eyelashes, or the polished nails. She once turned her head as a man sliced one of the colorful fingers, but she could not avoid the shrill scream or the sobbing that ensued.

Under the drab burqa and tightly woven veil, Aziza could not tell that the women were human. She guessed that the men with guns couldn't either.

Throughout her time at the orphanage, Aziza noticed that words would get caught in her throat and she'd have to force them to come out. This was an annoying knew habit, as her sentences would be broken up and her thoughts no longer swiftly communicated.

"Aziza," Zaman had said, "what's the square root of sixteen?"

"F-f-four," she had answered, her embarrassment showing red on her face.

Finally, there was hope. When her mother first came to visit her, Aziza was filled with excitement. Her mother's face was black and blue, but she was too happy that she was there to ask any questions that might've brought down the mood. They talked for hours as Aziza detailed the events of the orphanage, especially her schooling, to her mother. Her mother's visits were seldom and sporadic, but she cherished them with all her heart, committing them to memory so that she could replay them on long days.

Aziza laid on her bed, cataloging all of her tribulations in her mind. She remarked at how cruel the world had been to her, granting her an abusive father, a harsh, tyrannizing government, and a home away from her loved ones. Then, just as Aziza's mind was about to jump off the cliff into the sea of despair, she held onto one idea: now that all was lost, things could only get better. And with that hope, she waited for her mother to visit one final time and take her home, home to a place where she could be happy. As she closed her eyes, she knew, beyond all doubt, that a new, affectionate father, a just government, and a loving family awaited her.