When I am five, my teachers tell me that family is blood. My classmates nod their heads, still too big for their bodies, babbling in agreement.

My body squirms in my plastic seat. I don’t like that idea at all. Blood is red. Red is the colour of all scary things.

Timmy, the boy who always brings Lucky Charms, drew a monster yesterday. It had a wide mouth full of too many teeth and horns that were almost as long as the rest of him. Red crayon, held tightly in Timmy’s squishy fingers, created the monster's uneven skin. I had a dream about that red monster and saw it peeking through my wardrobe when I woke up. 

The teachers tell us that blood is the strongest bond we have to anyone. I’m not sure what "bond" means, but the wrinkles between Mrs. Esther’s skinny eyebrows tell me that it is serious. I don’t know whether I believe her. She lied about Santa being real.

Mrs. Esther puts us in groups during art class and tells us to draw a home: a place where families live together. All the bright crayons, happy colours, are snatched before I decide what to draw.

Squiggles of bright rainbows and trails of mucus quickly fill scrunched loose-leaf papers. Timmy piles up the red crayons beside him and covers a whole page. No shapes or outlines, just splotches of red.

My hands move shakily over a green square, then a brown roof. A black rectangle for the door and two purple square windows. I steal a red crayon when Timmy isn’t looking. I use it to draw Mummy, Daddy, and me. Three bloods, holding hands. A family.

My drawing is up on the fridge for everybody to see. Daddy tells me that I have talent. He explains that it is something special, something everyone wants. He says it with a big smile that wrinkles the side of his eyes. Then he scoops me up, the world pushing away from my feet, my laughter shaking under my skin. I am soaring.

I draw more pictures of us, of the trees outside, the flowers in our neighbor's garden, my teacher's weird eyebrows, and the tiny blue car I saw outside my window yesterday. Daddy hangs up all my pictures, but not the car. He must like it a lot, because he keeps it close to him all the time.

The blue car is outside my window when Mummy comes home from work one Tuesday evening. She is early today.

I watch her through my window as she pulls off the clip in her hair and lets her braids fall around her face. She removes her pink seeing glasses and pushes them into her handbag, like a superhero shedding their costume. Mummy walks inside and shuts the door. I sit down on my bed and pick one of the crayons scattered on the floor.

Loud voices float through the walls of my room. I can hear Mummy and Daddy. They are saying mean things. Their voices crack and grow until I clutch my ears to block it out. I run out and shout, “Stop!” because they are hurting me, but seeing a third person makes me pause.

There is another woman, taller than Mummy, clinging to Daddy’s arm. Mummy is standing on the other side. The brown sofa is like a fence separating them. That isn’t right. Daddy should let go of the tall woman with angry eyes.

Mummy sees me first. She runs and scoops me up like a ball, hugging me to her chest. There is no laughter now. I am scared.

Mummy is shouting, “Get out! Get out of our house!”

That makes sense. The woman should leave. She is the one who doesn’t belong here. Instead, Daddy walks out with her. My insides feel too tight, and my skin gets hot. A fire has burnt its way through our "bond" with no warning or buildup.

We do not survive it.

Later that night, when Mummy has stopped crying, I sneak out of her room and go to the fridge. The picture of our home is too far to reach, so I jump as high as I can with my arms outstretched. My fingers dig into the paper, but my face slams into the metal doors. I slide to the floor with the drawing.

Family is blood, but Daddy’s blood didn’t stop him from leaving. I tear the paper in my hands until the pieces are like snow. Then I stuff them into my mouth. I don’t draw anything after that.

***

A year after Daddy leaves, the law tries to help our family. That is what Mummy tells me. I dress up in my most grownup clothes: a white top with ruffles on the shoulders and black trousers. I look for my cleanest pair of socks and make sure they match. There are no patterns or cartoons. No bright colours or glitter. I am plain. I am a grownup.

Mummy is silent as we drive. She doesn’t put on any of our favourite radio stations. There are no motivational talks or sermons to chase away the absence of sound. She doesn’t comment on the big-girl clothes I picked.

It’s okay. I don’t ask how much longer the drive is or play I Spy. I will be on my best behavior.

The courtroom is cold. I should have brought my pink sweater.

“Oh wow, look at our little Amira! You’ve grown so much.” Mr. Ibrahim, Mummy’s lawyer, puts his hand out to shake me.

He saw me last week, in our house. I haven’t grown, but I don’t correct him. I let him wrap his sweaty fingers around mine and jerk them up, then down.

The room fills with people I have never seen. They all know my name. “Amira.” A-mee-raa. My name sounds strange and heavy in their mouths. I wish they would stop saying it. They reach out for me with their sticky fingers and heavy breaths.

Mummy leaves me in the middle row with a woman, an aunty I don’t know. She walks toward the front of the room, sitting beside Mr. Ibrahim. Daddy sits on the other side of the room next to a man, another person I don’t know. The world is unfamiliar today. 

I wait and wait, but he never turns his head. Never looks for me. I try not to let that hurt me. Daddy is probably just stressed.

An old man in a long, yellow wig walks into the room and everyone stands, so I do too. His voice is scratchy, like it is pushing past rough walls in his throat. It makes me uncomfortable.

Everyone in the room is very focused on the man with the scratchy voice. I pay attention, too, but I don’t understand what he is saying. The words that tumble out of his big lips make no sense to me. Until I hear my name. A-mi-raaaa. That’s me, but no one turns to look at me. Not even Mummy or Daddy.

My palms are sweaty, but I’m still cold.

Mr. Ibrahim jumps out of his chair; it falls to the ground, loud and hollow. He points a meaty finger in Daddy’s direction. “He has no family," he says. "That is not a home.”

I tug on my aunty’s shirt. Her eyes are sharp when she turns to me. “That isn’t true,” I whisper. “Daddy has a family. Me and Mummy are his family. Mr. Ibrahim got it wrong. Someone needs to tell him he got it wrong.”

My aunty makes a cough-like sound and turns away from me. No one tells Mr. Ibrahim that he is wrong. Not even Daddy. People nod their heads and mumble in agreement. Mr. Ibrahim doesn’t sit back down. He keeps talking, the vein in his neck bulging with each sentence. 

“This is obvious,” he says. “We have to think about Amira’s wellbeing and who is most fit to take care of her.”

I want to shout that Daddy takes care of me just fine. He buys me candy and tells me stories at night. He scoops me up and makes me fly. I want to say so many things, but my aunty puts a bony hand on my shoulder and squeezes a little, enough to hurt.

“Your father is an orphan with no siblings,” she says.

I don’t know what "orphan" means, and she doesn’t explain.

The man with the yellow wig hits a hammer on the table. He says something. More words that I don’t know.

Mummy covers her face with her hands and her shoulders shake. My aunty removes her hand from my shoulder and whispers, “Yes. Thank God.”

“What happened?” I ask, voice trembling.

Her sharp eyes are not so sharp anymore. “They have decided that you will stay with Mummy.”

I shake my head. “Who decided?”

“The court did.”

That doesn’t make sense to me, so I ask, “For how long?”

She shrugs her pointy shoulders. “Forever.”

I let myself cry now. The court did not ask me what I wanted before planning my forever.

***

I have grown five inches the next time I see Daddy. Three years have gone by in a blur of maths classes and empty houses. Mummy has picked up more shifts in the hospital to support us.

The walls of my new house are very strong. Concrete. Yet, when the wind gets too strong, I worry that the whole thing will collapse.

It's Sunday, so we go to church. I wear my favourite blue dress, the one with the big bow around my tummy. Mummy wears a shirt and skirt that shimmers when she walks. Her hair is covered in a head wrap. It’s wide and ovally, like a UFO.

I ask to inspect her head for aliens, but she just hustles me into the car. It's black, no blue cars around.

The ceiling of our church is miles away from the wooden bench I sit in. I imagine flying to the pretty chandeliers that wink down at me, but I quickly shake the thought away. There will be no more flying for me.

People keep staring at us. The blacks of their eyes turn slowly in our direction, then dart away when I look up. They talk out of the left side of their mouths, while the right side lifts in small smiles. I inspect my dress for juice stains and check to see that Mummy’s UFO is still in place. Nothing out of place. No reason to stare.

The pastor climbs into his floating box and talks about family. The white hair around his mouth jumps around as he speaks. Drops of spit shoot out of his mouth, his words in physical form.

He opens his Bible, old and worn, propping it up in front of him. “If you don’t have your Bible, look up at the screens and follow along," he says.

A sea of necks crane upward, eyes wide and accepting. The top of the screen reads Ephesians 5:22-33.

“Eh-fish-ans,” I read out obediently.

A rumble of voices follows the words with me, like a hymn. We read about wives who submit and husbands with the same bodies as their wives. Mummy’s lips are pressed into a thin line, caging her words inside. Other women with colorful UFO’s glance at us while we read. I raise fire in my eyes to make them look away, forgetting the words on the screen.

After the service, the women who stared at us create a ring around Mummy. They laugh with their backs bent and heads thrown back. Their mouths are wide and crooked teeth flash out. They don’t have horns, but they are monsters. My brain tells me that.

The women become quiet, spines stiffening, as they look above my head. Daddy is here.

He is alone. He stands very still, eyes darting around. My heart gets big in my chest. He is looking for me. I knew he would.

I throw off the tiny high-heeled shoes on my feet and bend my knees. I am five inches shorter now. Like I was when he left. My front tooth has fallen out, so I smile with closed lips. Now I look like the me he remembers. He will find me now.

Mummy steps in front of me, her skirt kicking up with the sudden movement. The other women stand beside her. They are a wall, hiding me.

I shout, “No! He has to find me. He came to find me!”

The women stand still and ignore me. My fingers grab at the rough material of their clothes and pull. My arms are too small, my body too weak.

All the women are very different, different shapes and colours, but their faces are the same. Their eyebrows, caked with brown crayon, pulled down. Ripples along their noses like there is a bad smell, and eyes that roll one after the other.

I peek through their skirts to see Daddy looking at them. He can’t see me under their clothes. He opens his mouth and takes a step forward, toward me, but he doesn’t take another. His eyes lift to the wall in front of me, then drop to the floor. His fingers twitch at his sides before he stuffs them in his brown trousers.

He spins his back to me, then he walks away. His steps are hurried and large, like he is escaping a house on fire.

***

I am sixteen years old when Mum sits me down to "talk."

We are the same height now, but I still feel small, movable. The brown sofa welcomes my body and I try not to sink into it. Mum sits straight, ankles folded neatly at her side. My shoulders are slumped, hands clenched in my lap.

We are strangers that drifted apart while we tried to survive an explosion. Dad left a hole too big to understand. In trying to cope with the pain, we hid from each other, making the hole wider. I take a slow breath, expanding my lungs, bracing for impact.

“A really good opportunity has come up. It would help me out a lot if you went. I know you would be fine with it, but I just wanted to have a discussion with you.” Mum’s voice is excited but sincere.

I keep my mouth closed, producing a small smile. Encouraging her to continue. The discussion goes on in similar fashion: her talking about a great opportunity, me nodding. My aunt has just been offered a job in the United States. Mum wants me to leave with her. In a month. She says it is an opportunity to grab things that she can’t give. A better education, connections, money.

Her eyes sparkle when she says, “Just imagine all those women in church when they hear I sent you abroad! All by myself! I did it without your father.”

I get stressed going to new places, even restaurants. I have never talked to anyone who isn’t Nigerian. I have dreams about the school shootings I hear about on the news. Being even a little cold puts me in a bad mood.

I don’t say any of this. I just pull the corner of my lips higher and keep nodding. 

She is clapping and muttering praises to herself, then she pauses for a moment and turns to me. “Remember to surround yourself with the right people, our people," she says. "Don’t get swept into groups of people who aren’t like us. Do you understand?”

I can’t get myself to nod. Our people. All that comes to mind is chocolate skin, brown eyes, and wounded hearts. Does their skin make them mine? I have never had my people.

The discussion isn’t really a discussion. The choice isn’t really a choice. A month later, I am on a plane to a different world.

***

A collection of degrees swims around in my suitcase when I meet my family. I am nearing the end of my twenties, with little to report. Bachelors, Masters, an unplanned PhD to push life back a little. I am done with school now. Life is here.

I drag my life onto the front steps of the big, red building at the end of the road. Two suitcases that contain no pictures of me and my people. I didn’t find them.

A woman in a floral dress emerges from the brown front door and glides down the steps to meet me. She throws her hands around my shoulders and pulls me down to her. The hug is warm, vanilla tickling my nose.

“Welcome to the family,” she says brightly.

I shake my head and take a step away from her. My body puts space between me and her words.

“I’m just the superintendent for the building.” My voice comes out low and rough.

The lamented degrees swim more violently in my suitcase. I ignore them. This is the job I wanted more than anything. To make a building a home, to keep it a home.

The woman smiles brightly, white teeth shaming the sun. “Exactly.” She pulls one of my bags, one half of my life, out of my hand, carrying it up the stairs like it weighs nothing. “Come in, I'll do the introductions.”

The woman in the floral dress grabs a man by the elbow and pulls him towards me. The woman introduces them in a flurry of excited words and big gestures. Mr. and Mrs. Gu. They live in apartment 1A on the first floor. They immigrated from South Korea, but don’t say when.

Mrs. Gu is a nurse, the only kind one I have ever met. She is small, but her laughter booms and her brown eyes sparkle attentively. Mr. Gu doesn’t talk much. He offers a few words only in the seconds when Mrs. Gu is out of breath. He is a great cook, likes to feed people. His favorite movie is Up, the Disney movie, in case I am not sure which one. It is my favorite movie too.

After introductions, they take me on a tour of the building, our home. They tell me about the tenants in the other rooms. Most of the people here have travelled a long distance and formed small communities. The other woman on my floor, Grace, moved in last month but doesn’t come out too often. As we walk, Mrs. Gu catches me up to speed on all the latest gossip.  The walls are thin here, but this home is strong, unbreakable. My brain tells me that.

***

Two months have run through me, leaving my body worn by the impacts of time. I sit in the wooden rocking chair tucked away in the corner of the common room. The sun casts an orange glow over the space and heats my skin. The phone pressed against my ear causes sweat to drip down my helix.

Silence swells on both ends, stretching into something heavier. I can feel the weight of it settle around my chest. The grandfather clock in the corner of the common room chimes loudly, reminding me that the world is still moving.

“So things are going well?” Mum asks. Her voice is far away, because her body is preoccupied by something else.

I stretch out my legs in front of me, listening to the creak and pop of bones. “Yeah, everyone here is really nice. I’m comfortable.” My words are dull and flat from repetition. 

“I still don’t understand why you chose to do this. Aren’t there other things to do with your degree?” She is a little closer now, but still impossibly far from me.

We have grown in separate directions. The conversations we have now are skeptical swipes at the surface of two deep seas.

“I’m happy with what I’m doing, and I make enough to be comfortable,” I say.

Another wave of silence follows our words, then a quick goodbye. I pull my phone away from my ear and open the calendar app to set a date a month from now for another scripted check-in.

Mr. and Mrs. Gu stop the chess game they are playing and glide over to me. “Was that your mum on the phone?” Mrs. Gu asks, settling into the seat beside me. Mr. Gu remains standing. I nod.

Mr. Gu looks at the ceiling, then at me. “Did you have a better conversation this time?”

I shake my head, and see dots of white in my vision. Mrs. Gu passes me a bottle of water, which I receive with a smile.

“I’m not trying to have a better conversation, and neither is she," I say. "We don’t know much about each other, there is nothing to say.”

Mr. Gu turns and tilts his head like he does whenever he is thinking something through. Then he nods, turns around, and walks away.

I look to Mrs. Gu for an answer and she lets out a little laugh, a whisper of air. “He has a lot of regrets about relationships that are now impossible to mend. He struggles when he sees the people he cares about in danger of that.”

***

Naomi walks into our lives three months after I turn 28. She moves in with her mother on a random Monday in May.

She is a beautiful zombie upon arrival. Her high cheekbones, flawless brown skin, and honey brown eyes are all signs of her beauty. However, dark circles cling to the bottom of her eyes and her braids are so old they look like she has already taken them out. She carries multiple boxes up three flights of stairs without saying a word of complaint.

Her mother is still in the driveway, leaned over a blue Honda Civic. Anger blossoms within me at the sight, and I turn away to keep my memories at bay.

Mrs. Gu is at work when they arrive, so I take care of the introductions. It takes two hours to introduce ourselves and haul everything up to the third floor. Their lives fill up an entire U-Haul truck. It is exhausting to move that much life.

We all collapse on the common room floors, breathing hard, eyes fixed to the ceiling.

“Welcome to the family,” Mr. Gu wheezes as he sets aside a pack of brushes and one huge canvas. It has nothing on it. A fresh start.

Naomi’s honey eyes dig into him, searching for truth, not trusting.

I understand that look, the mental step back that comes with it. I raise a tired arm and squeeze her shoulder lightly. “What’s your favorite movie?” I ask.

***

Only one complete birth cycle passes before Naomi’s mum runs off with Gerald, the owner of the Honda Civic. Gerald is a 26-year-old man (20 years younger than Naomi’s mum) who overcompensates for his name with leather and chains.

Mrs. Gu tells us she saw this coming. I did, too. Blue cars can’t be trusted.

Naomi says she is fine, doesn’t care, and isn't bothered.

Apparently this isn’t the first time her mother has run off with a man, but it is the first time she has left Naomi behind. She has also stopped paying her rent. Naomi doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that Mr. and Mrs. Gu take turns with Grace to pay it off. She doesn’t need to know. Family gives without speaking.

Naomi puts on a brave face throughout the day, but at night she crawls in and out of herself. She knocks on my door today a little after midnight. Her eyes are barely open. It looks like she has been in a tussle. Her pant legs are rolled up to her knees and her shirt is inside out. There are splashes of paint all over her skin. Reds, greens, and deep blues.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, dragging her limbs into my apartment.

We sit cross-legged on opposite sides of my bed.

“Bad dream?” I ask.

She shakes her head, sending brown braids flying. “It was a good dream, Mum was there, but I woke up and it wasn’t real. I wish I dreamed of demons instead.”

I pull her into a hug, holding her close. Her demons are present when she is awake. In the quiet rooms and empty cupboards. 

We slip under the covers and drift. I dream of demons with red skin and pointy horns.

***

Two years of movie nights and shared meals brings our family to this moment. A note, a looming decision, a red-faced Mr. Gu.

On an unnecessarily hot summer day, most of the residents are piled around fans in the common room like reptiles sunbathing. Mrs. Gu hurries  into the room, tripping over her sandals in her hurry to leave them at the door. She rushes to the dining table where I am flipping through my copy of My Sister the Serial Killer.

She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of her floral skirt and slides it to me across the table. With the spark in her eyes, you would think she had just given me a bag of cocaine.

She shrugs her dainty shoulders. “Naomi’s mum called on the landline, gave me her number.”

At the mention of Naomi's mother, Mr. Gu pushes his body out of the worn leather couch and joins us at the table.

“Why would she reach out now?” he scoffs. His usually smiley features are drawn up tight in annoyance, with his lips curling and his jaw clenching.

Mrs. Gu throws her arms up in exasperation. “Naomi’s mum lives with Gerald in Florida and wants Naomi to come live with them there. She gave me her new number because she lost her old phone and wants Naomi to call her. She said she’s sorry about how she left.”

“So we are giving Naomi the number?” I ask. 

Mr. Gu shakes his head. “No.”

The debate starts then, and for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Gu are on opposite sides. A couch creates a wall between them.

Mrs. Gu's words are sharp, wrapped in barbed wire. “Her mother made a mistake. She is trying to fix it. Who are we to stand in the way of that? Naomi should reach out to her mother. She should forgive. They are family.”

Mr. Gu isn’t fazed. His bulky shoulders pull higher, his chin turning upwards. “Family chooses you back, and not after two years. Not as an afterthought. Cycles of neglect go on because people keep telling the person getting hurt to forgive.”

I stand up from the table, hoping some extra height will get their attention. It doesn’t.

“We have to think about her wellbeing, and who is more fit to take care of her,” Mr. Gu insists. His almond eyes are bigger, full of despair. “We can take care of her.”

His words remind me of cold courtrooms and tiny hands moving nervously over plain black trousers.

“This isn’t our decision to make,” I say.

My words are steel. They leave no room for discussion. 

***

The fire is upon us six hours later.

Naomi and I are curled up on my bed watching The Conjuring when the sound of banging tears me out of bed.  I slip on my purple silk robe, stumbling towards the door with Naomi a few steps behind me. I hear frenzied chanting in the hallway. It sounds like the Lord’s Prayer.

I throw open my door to find Mr. Gu with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Beside him, Grace bounces on the balls of her feet, ready to take off. Her small frame is drowning in mismatched pajamas, green eyes wide with panic.

“Fire in the basement. No alarm. Too late. We need to get out!” she rushes.

Mr. Gu looks at her, then at us. “We need to leave now.”

“Is everyone else out?” I ask at the same time Naomi says, “Shit, I thought I turned it off.”

Her words slur together.

“What?” Grace and I screech in the same pitch.

“I made ramen. I thought I turned the stove off. I was so sure, but I was crying a lot. You don’t think it was that, do you?” Her voice rises with every word.

“Jesus, save us! Like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, free us from this fire miraculously.” Grace is rushing towards the stairs, her words trailing after her.

Naomi and I share a look of panic, both imagining our charred flesh, then we take off. Mr. Gu grabs us both by the arm and pulls us, with more strength than he should have, down the hallway.

We skip two stairs at a time on our way down. The bright orange flames lick their way up the stairs to the basement on the other side of us. Flames trying to escape hell.

The lobby is covered in dark clouds that cling to the ceiling. I gasp at the sight, filling my nose and mouth with puffs of smoke. Fear wraps my body, sticking like tape.

Once we step out of the building, I scan the parking lot for the rest of the residents. My eyes skip about, conducting a rapid headcount. People stand in small clusters, clutching random items to their chests. Everyone is out.

Grace runs over to one of the clusters, and the limbs open for her, wrapping her frantic body between them.  Mrs. Gu walks over to us with a hand on her chest and tears brimming in her eyes.

The distant sound of sirens rings through the air, and I feel a surge of hope. As soon as the thought forms in my mind, Naomi tugs on my arm. I turn to her to find wide brown eyes filled with tears.

“Hey, it's going to be ok," I say. "The fire department is on their way and we all made it out, so—”

“I left my locket inside. I wasn’t thinking because I was so scared but I can’t—” She takes a shaky breath, fingers digging into my skin. She has gotten the attention of the other residents as well. “My mum left me with that locket, it’s the only thing of hers I have, I need it back.”

She glances back at the building.

Mrs. Gu steps closer and puts an arm around Naomi’s shoulder. “It’s ok, dear. She gave us her number. She wants you to call.”

Naomi sniffles and wipes her nose on the sleeve of her shirt. She peers at Mrs. Gu cautiously. “Really? You have her number?”

“I even managed to grab the bag it was in on my way out.” Mrs. Gu says, unzipping the tiny brown bag that hangs over her shoulder.

I notice Mr. Gu wince. “It’s not in the bag,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Gu mumbles. “I put it right here before we went to bed.” As she speaks, she digs through the contents of the bag. A few seconds of desperate rummaging. She looks up at Mr. Gu with a murderous glare. “You didn’t.”

His shoulders slump with guilt. “I didn’t want her to get hurt again. I had no idea that she would—” His eyes lift to Naomi, who is silently crying. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

He looks at the front door of the building, which has clouds of smoke pooling out of it and rising into the starless night sky. With his brows set in determination, his steps hurried and large, he runs into the burning building.

Naomi takes off, disappearing into the smoke behind him. A domino has been tipped over. Mrs. Gu reacts first, her skirt billowing in the wind as she runs. I struggle to catch up.

Inside the building, we meet chaos. More smoke, debris falling like hail, voices booming like thunder. Most of us stand in the hallways, shouting useless instructions at unlistening ears.

Mr. Gu emerges from his room with a fist in the air and more fire in his eyes than this building can contain. “Got it.”

We begin our hurried exit. Sweat blinds me in the lobby, and I stumble. My arms drop to the floor and my fingers brush something long and cylindrical. A rolled-up canvas. I scoop it up and continue my escape.

Outside, the world is painted blue and red. Sirens fill my thoughts. We huddle around the paper in Mr. Gu’s hand. I roll open the canvas in mine. Naomi glances at it, then at me. I have never seen a smile so bright.

The canvas is covered in yellows and greens. Five people, drawn in different colours, standing hand in hand. No building in sight.

This is a family. Their bodies pulled closely together — a home.