My mother-in-law Fatima sends us cardboard boxes filled with biscuits all the way from Algiers. Amine, my husband was so excited the first time one of these boxes arrived, he raced home from work on his bicycle, the box tucked under his arm and waving triumphantly with his other, the bike doing crazy zig-zags along the road. I was waiting on the wall outside our apartment for his return. We hadn’t been married for long.



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