Before my elder sister took off to Turkey—due to the safety threat she faced merely on account of being “my sister”—she packed our lives into boxes. Our pictures, our books, my parents’ pictures (which is all we have left of them), their love letters, their clothes, our clothes, our childhood toys, our house’s green ornaments, the feminine things my mother once bought me when she hoped I would marry one day, my father’s watch which I promised I’d give to the man I would love as much as I loved my father. Even though I finally found this man, I broke the promise: the watch sits there in a box somewhere along with copies of the book that I once published but have not even a single copy of today.