Alya

I am standing at the coffin of my husband Boran, next to me is my three-year-old son Deniz.

Mardin, an ancient city and my husband's birthplace, greeted me harshly, as did his family.

Boran's mother, Sadaqat Albora, blamed me for her son's death because I was driving.

Boran's brother, Jihan, was reserved and strict. But Nare and Kaya, my husband's sister and brother, were more reasonable.
Nadim Baibars and his son were also present at the funeral, but kept aloof from the others, as if enjoying their grief.
I stand there, the wind blowing through my hair, as dry as this place.
I don't know yet that my happy life in Toronto is over.