I’ve been here in the Sahara for a full week now. In some ways, I’m starting to feel very at home.

I absolutely love my family. My two younger “sisters” and I have been able to spend a good amount of time together—In fact, I couldn’t get away from them if I tried. Whenever Miriam and return home, little Selma comes running out to us, her little bare feet kicking up puffs of dust behind her. She hugs our knees and kisses us and leads us inside.

Selma is pretty relentless—she’s so full of energy, always babbling in Hesseniya, running back and forth, jumping on our laps (or our faces when we’re trying to rest!), and squealing with delight at the tiniest little pleasure. I absolutely love playing with Selma, and after a few minutes with her I’m always laughing hysterically.

Shebab and I are also becoming very close. My Arabic is rapidly improving, since she forces me into conversation whenever she catches me at home. (Whether I’m sleeping, reading, writing, or on the phone—it doesn’t matter, when she wants to talk, it’s time to talk!). We spent over an hour yesterday talking about school, her future, and boys. (She’s let me in on the elaborate drama of her love life, always admonishing me, “but don’t tell momma.”)

Last night was a difficult one for both of us, though. Shebab had been planning to head off to college in Algiers this weekend, and I was so excited for her. But last night I noticed her sitting alone outside the door, her usually animated face looking extremely downcast. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but for a long time her only response was silence.

She told me we could talk inside the tent, and so I went in with her and sat by her mat. After a few minutes of silently wiping away tears, she told me that her mom had just told her she wouldn’t be able to go away to school. When she told me this, my heart broke—not only for her loss, but also for the courage and humility in her eyes as she tried to hide the disappointment.

In broken Arabic, I tried to reassure her and offer her some comfort, but soon we both fell silent. She took my hand and simply held it. I sat by her for a quarter of an hour, in the dark, her hand in mine, just wanting her to know she wasn’t alone. I wanted to offer hope, but sometimes all you can do is try and ward off despair.

By the time the rest of the family returned from the neighbors’, it was about 1 A.M. When Shebab heard them coming, she told me to go to my bed, and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you sister. I’m not sad. It’s nothing.” Her eyes were still gleaming with tears, and so were mine. But what was left to say?

Love hurts.