Dear Alula, Yesterday you cried. You were inconsolable. You want to leave now, you sobbed. You don’t want to make friends in England, you said, because you’ll just end up leaving them, so what’s the point? You’re really bad at math, you cried. And you call braids braids, not plaits. Who calls them plaits anyway? …

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“I’m planning on being a nicer person when I’m back in England.” ‘You are a nice person already,’ I tell Alula. ‘I think I could be nicer. I’m already practicing,” Alula informs me. I feel humbled into silence by my eight-year old daughter’s level of emotional intelligence and self-awareness. Feeling I need to up my …

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