Twenty years earlier, my husband, Grant, had moved our family to Cairo.
At the time, he was just beginning his career as a reporter. When he received an overseas job offer, he walked around as if the world had finally opened its doors to him.
“Cass, this is it,” he said, waving the letter. “This is the kind of chance people wait years for.”
I looked across the table at Tara, who was busy trying to balance a spoon on her nose.
“What do you think, monkey?” I asked.
She let the spoon tumble into her cereal.
“Do they have pancakes in Egypt?”
Grant laughed.
“We can make pancakes anywhere.”
So we went.
We rented a small apartment on the second floor of a building with a garden below. Tara loved that garden. Every afternoon, she raced downstairs carrying her jump rope.
I always watched from the balcony until she noticed me.
“Mom, stop staring!”
“You’re eight,” I called back. “Keeping you safe is my job!”
Grant worked from home at the kitchen table. I found work too. One salary wasn’t enough, and I also liked having something that belonged to me.
For a while, I truly believed we were happy.
Then Tuesday came.
Tara sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully tying a ribbon around the neck of her stuffed rabbit.
“Don’t forget pancakes tonight,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
I kissed her forehead.
“Promise.”
Grant stood nearby at the counter reading notes for an article.
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” he said.
Those were the last normal words he ever gave me.
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