Eleni
Mama leans away from the stove, where she’s somehow managed to gather the ingredients for what she’s calling “Italian Souvlaki” and meets my gaze.
“We have to buy those tickets soon, zouzouni.”
I look down at the cucumber I’m grating for tzatziki. Three days have passed since I made my decision, and I still haven’t told her. I don’t know how. I know Mama should go, but I’ve never been away from her. She still wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking and muttering Baba’s name. How can I look her in the eye and tell her that justice will only come to our family if she leaves alone? That I’ve let myself get roped into the same life that killed Baba?
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.
She nods. “Just leave the cucumber by the sink. I’ll squeeze it if you’re not back in time.
