How I Became My Mother’s Daughter

“Hold still,” Milouda said. “It’ll only make it worse if you move.” She squeezed my earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. The needle was new, unused—she’d shown it to my mother when we arrived in her makeshift salon in the old medina of Casablanca. The sound of Arabic music and bicycle bells filtered through the half-open window from the cobblestone street outside. Taking the needle out of a red box with a French brand name, she said, “Only the best for you, lalla Fatima.” My mother nodded, unused to the title of respect the clever Milouda had used; she was the kind of woman with whom meat vendors felt comfortable haggling.

A woman sat under a color poster of Olivia Newton-John, waiting to get her hair straightened, and Milouda told her this would only take a minute or two. She turned on the stove and held the needle over the flame until it turned charcoal black. “Wiggle your toes,” she ordered.

Instead, I put my arms around my mother’s waist, looking for the comfort of her soft belly. I felt the pressure of the needle on my right earlobe and the sharp pain when my skin gave. I bit my lips, forcing my cries back in my throat. I felt pearls of blood forming on my skin, one thick drop landing on my shoulder, next to my tank-top strap. I jerked my head to look at the blood. “Stop!” Milouda cried. “Hold still.” My mother put her hand on my shoulder, giving me a small squeeze of encouragement.

Milouda pulled the thread through the hole in my earlobe and made a loop, tying it at the base. I reached for it, eager to feel my first earring, this temporary one that would precede the gold studs my mother had promised me when I agreed to get my ears pierced.

It was over in a minute, as Milouda had promised. Then I heard the ruffled sound of money changing hands. I admired my reflection in the mirror. My mother stood behind me, her hair in a loose bun, her green jellaba clashing with her yellow neckerchief. We grinned at each other.

I reached for her hand. Normally she’d tell me that, at ten years old, I was too old to be holding hands. “Not a baby anymore.” But today she let me.

“Let’s go show your father,” she said. I knew, though, that the real reason she wanted to drop in on my father was because she wanted to surprise him, to see if he was indeed at work even though it was a Saturday. She had started to suspect that he was having an affair.

What I hadn’t told my mother was that I already knew my father was having an affair. I knew the other woman. Her name was Beatrice Sauget and she was my French teacher.

I’d always walked to school on my own, but when I sprained my ankle after I fell off my bike, my father started to drop me off at school before going to work. He’d ask Mademoiselle Sauget how I did in class, his hands weighing on my shoulders or stroking my hair, and then he’d kiss me goodbye. After a couple of weeks, my ankle got better, but he still wanted to drive me to school every day. He started to wear cologne that made me sneeze in the car on the way over. He put on suit jackets over the usual button-down shirts her wore at the office. When we’d arrive on the steps of the school he’d cheerfully say “Bonjour,” and start chatting away with Mademoiselle Sauget. Their conversations started to get longer; they’d talk about books they’d read, movies they’d seen, places they wanted to go, but he always had a kiss for me before he left.

My mother never suspected Mademoiselle Sauget, who was always friendly to her and told her that I was good at conjugation. My mother couldn’t speak French very well and...