A week ago at the Koh Samui Airport; the four of us are rushing to our plane in an open air buggy.
Leila pushes me. She shouts, “WOW! Mum. Look’t Leila hair,” as she runs her fingers through her hair.
“Yes! Your hair is blowing in the wind.”
“Rawul awso,” she says, pointing at her brother’s hair.
She looks at Maher next, “Papa NOT.”
And then at me, “Mama Yes.”