I hold my pen and I look at it. What does this soundless and wordless tool want from me? If it could claim its rights, it would start talking, but instead I talk, and it accompanies.

I was the middle child in my family. My brother, the eldest child, in some ways was the center of my mother’s attention, and all his acts and deeds were the only ones cherished by my mother. My younger sister was energetic, attractive, and sweet-spoken to the point that I loved her.

It was not significant that I was shy and hid behind my father. It was significant that as soon as I uttered a word, I would be interrupted, and my parents’ attention would always divert to the other two! After a while, I accepted that I would not be heard, and I also preferred that my brother with his knowledge or my sister with her sweetness be attended to; I did not have any attractions to be noticed. When I grew up, the criterion for a partner was a man who could listen. When I met my husband, I told my mom that he listens to me in every situation and that makes me feel better!

I fell into the pathway of marriage, I became a mother, I immigrated. Immigration . . . as if a double lock had been placed on a door to which I understood that I could not return. Immigration put a stamp of silence on my lips! My daughter grew up and went to school, and I accepted that I am a mother who should not talk because I am not good enough—not good in my language and my expressions!