Safa beat the drum — clap, clap, clap! The stuffed animals hopped along. Her mother watched and clapped too.
The drum went faster and faster — and then her mother pressed a hand to her belly and gasped. Safa dropped the sticks. What had she done?
Her mother sank onto the bed, a cool cloth on her forehead. Safa grabbed a glass of water and ran barefoot to the kitchen, slapping the tiles.
She tripped on the mat and water flew everywhere — then she poured more, slow and careful, though her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She held the glass to her mother's lips. Their fingers touched — warm, soft, different. The water was just enough.
Safa rested her palm on her mother's shoulder and counted the ticks of the clock. Rain tapped the window. She didn't move until her mother's breathing changed.
Safa pressed her cheek to her mother's shoulder. The cloth smelled like cardamom and sunshine. She listened to every breath.
Her mother stirred. One hand found Safa's and squeezed — once, twice. Then her other arm came around, pulling Safa close. They swayed together.
