Free Daughters of Iraq by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

look at it just yet, at least not that night. She was too distraught. The existence of the secret diary had turned her world upside-down, and she didn’t think she had the emotional fortitude to read it. She lay on her shabby sofa, facing the wall, sinking in memories.
    Images floated before her eyes: a hug from her mother at her kindergarten birthday party; her parents arguing like children about something trivial when she was ten or eleven; her parents reconciling, kissing, drawing her into their embrace. She recalled one time when she was almost twelve, almost a Bat-Mitzvah, and her brother Guy was chasing her around, trying to tickle her, and she couldn’t get away because she was laughing so hard, and Guy caught her right away. Her mother complained they were being too rambunctious, preventing her from working, but she couldn’t help being swept up in their silliness, and in the end both Noa and Guy pounced on Violet and tickled her. She remembered her father telling her about her mother’s illness; she didn’t really understand. She was fourteen years old. Her mother looked ashen, but tried to act like nothing was wrong, like nothing would ever be wrong. Everything was normal, no cause for worry, her parents told her. Her mother was strong. She’d prevail over any illness.
    Noa’s mother rose with the children every morning and prepared hot drinks for the whole family. Strong brewed coffee for Aba , tea with fresh mint for Guy, and instant coffee with milk for Noa. Noa was already seventeen, and her mother had ceased teaching at the university. She told Noa she’d decided to take a year to research the seclusion of Tel Aviv’s ultra-Orthodox community. It sounded strange to Noa, her mother taking an entire year to study something that sounded like a disease. It wasn’t until much later that Noa understood the concept of isolation, of seclusion—but even so, she would never have guessed her mother’s true condition. Soon after, Noa was drafted, and on the day of her induction, the whole family accompanied her to Tel Hashomer. Noa’s mother didn’t stop crying, nor did Noa. They embraced for a long time, until Noa had to get on the bus. They had a hard time saying goodbye. And then . . .
    Noa didn’t hear Ofir enter. She didn’t hear him set down his briefcase and call for her. She was so absorbed in her thoughts she didn’t realize he was standing next to her, looking at her.
    “Noa?”
    She jumped up. “Are you crazy, scaring me like that? How long have you been standing there anyway?”
    “I’m sorry. I really wasn’t trying to scare you.” Ofir sounded contrite. “I just walked in. Are you Okay?”
    “Why? Do I look like I’m not?” She didn’t like others seeing her at her weakest.
    “You look fine,” Ofir answered, confused. “But you also look a little strange. How could you not have heard me come in?”
    “I don’t know; I just didn’t.” Noa tugged down on her shirt, straightening it, and sat back down. “Tell me, how do you know there’s something wrong?” She stared up into his face, curious.
    “Oh . . . that’s easy. Believe it or not, Noa, you’re very transparent.” Ofir knelt and looked into her eyes. “When you’re in a good mood, you can tell from miles away.” He gave a thumbs-up then turned his thumb toward the floor, “ And when you’re in a bad mood, you can also tell from miles away. So what’s going on, Noa?” He got off his knees and sat next to her.
    Noa debated whether or not to tell Ofir about her evening. She decided she had nothing to hide. She looked down and then spoke. “You won’t believe what happened to me today; you just won’t believe it.”
    Ofir sat on an armchair across from her, waiting.
    “After my exam, I went to visit my aunt.” Noa paused.
    “Which aunt? The Iraqi one with the good food, or the native Israeli one who rolls her Rs?” He mimicked their voices as he spoke.
    Noa didn’t smile. “I was at my Aunt Farida’s,