Rivan

Ranya sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor of my office, her small frame hunched over her dolls as she narrates some made-up story under her breath, the kind only children understand. Her voice floats softly through the air, a gentle hum against the silence. A few feet away, I sit behind my desk, fingers frozen above the keyboard, unable to focus on the screen. My eyes stay fixed on her, searching her little face for answers to questions I don’t know how to ask. Where have I gone wrong? Have I crippled her with my presence? With my love that might be too consuming, too desperate to fill the void her mother left behind? Have I built a cage for her in my attempt to keep her safe? The thought sickens me. I can’t keep it in anymore. I need to talk to someone. Someone who has walked through fire with me, someone who won’t offer judgment, only truth.