A Wind of Change Read Online Free Page B

bed.
    “You must be starving.” She took my hand and led me into the kitchen. I dumped my bag on the floor. My three siblings were still seated at the table in the center of the small room.
    “Why are you so late, River?” Lalia, my six-year-old sister, scolded through a mouthful of hummus.
    I heaved a sigh and sat down at the table. “The buses weren’t behaving themselves.”
    My ten-year-old sister Dafne peered at me through her round purple spectacles. “Where did you go?”
    “You know… the restaurant.”
    Dafne, Lalia and I looked more like our mother than our father—more Lebanese than Italian. We shared her eye color, her rich brown hair and light tan skin. My nineteen-year-old brother sitting opposite me resembled our father uncannily with his black hair, brown eyes and whiter skin tone.
    “Hello, Jamil,” I said, giving him a smile.
    He gave me a lopsided half-smile and met my gaze briefly before mumbling inaudibly to himself and looking down at the table. I could see that my mother had been feeding him when I’d arrived back—he had half a plate of stuffed eggplant and falafel still in front of him.
    My mother approached with my plate and set it down in front of me. My mouth watering, I dug right in. There was nothing in the world like my mom’s cooking. She resumed her seat next to Jamil, picked up his fork and continued feeding him.
    “How’s the makdous?” she asked. “I think I added too little salt.”
    “No, it’s perfect,” I said. “So what have you guys been up to today?”
    “We’ve just been hanging around the apartment… Dafne’s been getting a headstart on her history homework—”
    “Hey, River, you know my class is studying the Ancient Egyptians next year?” Dafne interrupted. “Finally!”
    I chuckled. Our grandfather on my mother’s side being an Egyptologist, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Dafne knew more about Egyptian history than her history teacher.
    “And Lalia painted a picture,” my mother continued.
    “Of us!” Lalia piped up. Still clutching a piece of falafel in one hand, she slid off her seat and ran out of the kitchen. She returned with a watercolor painting. It was typical Lalia-style—brave, bold colors and half a dozen giant flowers floating around our stick figures for no discernible reason. This wasn’t the first family portrait Lalia had painted. We had a whole pile of them stacked beneath her bed. But something about this one made me stop chewing.
    Our father was missing. This was the first painting I’d seen of hers where she’d excluded him.
    Although it made me ache inside, I supposed it was a good thing. Perhaps she was letting go. I caught my mother’s eye. From the look of melancholy on her face, I could tell that she was thinking the same thing.
    “It’s beautiful, Laly,” I said, kissing her chubby cheek.
    She grinned proudly before setting the picture down on the kitchen counter and resuming her seat between Dafne and my mother.
    “We also made baklava,” my mother said.
    “Can I have some?” Lalia said, stuffing the last forkful of her main course into her mouth.
    My mother rolled her eyes. “You already sneaked five pieces before dinner, little rascal.”
    “Just one… please?” Lalia fluttered her eyelashes.
    “I’ll give you half a piece,” my mother muttered, standing up and opening the fridge door.
    Lalia pulled her grumpy face.
    “Baklava will start coming out of your ears soon if you’re not careful,” Dafne said, casting Lalia a sideways glance.
    My mother returned with a tray of the sweet, rich pastry. Slicing a piece in half, she handed it to Lalia. Then she scooped up two pieces and handed them to Dafne and placed two pieces in a bowl for me before putting the tray back in the fridge.
    “None for Jamil?” Dafne asked.
    My mother shook her head. “I’m cutting down on his sugar for a while. It’s not good for him.”
    I finished the last of my savory food and pushed my chair back, rubbing my