Rita, I see your tentative smile — in your eyes and mouth — and wish for a different childhood for you. One more like the childhood my own children are enjoying. I have a son who is ten. He is sitting with me on the porch right now telling me about a book he is reading. It is sunny. A bit cool. You deserve to be talking about literature. My daughter is five, only a little younger than you were when you and your family ran from your home and everything you knew and loved. She is singing to her fairy doll at the end of the street. You deserved to sing to a doll on a clear, sunny day. The scene of the three of us sitting here is ridiculously calm and beautiful. There are butterflies, one big and orange, one small and white. I’m watching them passively while I write this note to you. Rita, I want to tell you this: it’s not fair. I will do everything in my power to help people realize that “refugee” is not a bad word. To help people realize that there are children like you who are stuck neither here nor there. I will shake this world by the shoulders every chance I get, screaming, “Wake up! Don’t you understand what’s going on?! What you’re doing?! What you’re not doing?!” Until then, please know that I will never forget your face. Or your strength. I will tell my children about you and they will tell their children’s children about you. We’ll say, remember that beautiful, strong girl who pushed her way through the ugly, ugly world? Did you hear about the amazing things she is doing now?