This past September marked 21 years of not living with my mother. I was 17 and she was 49 when I left Gaza and her. I bet we are simultaneously counting the years, piling up questions and fears, but pretending not to. Those 21 years witnessed the longest process of cutting the umbilical cord and building a breezy terrace, where we can meet and be side by side, while not sticking too much that it would hurt again.