Chapter 1
I stare at the screen in front of me. I blink once, then twice. The sound of the TV behind me fades into the background, along with my brother’s loud screaming and my mother’s humming in the kitchen as she chops fruit for all of us.
My breath catches in my throat, and I find myself standing up, my chair screeching against the tiled floor of our small apartment in Istanbul. I cross the room, ignoring the dirty looks as I block their view of the match, and turn down the volume.
“I got it,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, heavy with disbelief.
“What?” Fatma asks from the couch, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she looks at me. “Did you say something, Ayla?”
I turn to face them, my hands shaking slightly as I hold up my phone, the email illuminated on the screen. “The Diversity Visa Lottery,” I say, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. “I won. I got the green card.”
Silence. The kind of heavy, expectant silence that falls right before a storm, or right after a prayer has been answered. My mother stops humming and peeks her head out of the doorway to look into the living room.
My brothers, who had been glaring daggers at me for interrupting their game, now stare at my phone with wide eyes, and Fatma’s jaw drops.
It’s my youngest sister, Leyla, who breaks the silence with a delighted squeal, jumping off the couch and running toward me, her small arms wrapping around my waist.
"Abla! You’re going to America!” she shrieks, her excitement contagious, and soon, everyone is on their feet, a flurry of hugs and congratulations.
My mother pulls me into her arms, her familiar scent of spices and rosewater wrapping around me, and I can feel her tears soaking into my shoulder as she murmurs prayers of thanks under her breath.
My older brothers, Hasan and Mehmet, clap me on the back, their proud smiles filling my chest with warmth that melts away the last of my disbelief.
“We always knew you’d do great things, Ayla,” Hasan says, his voice rough with emotion. “Our brilliant sister.”
“But America?” Mehmet adds, a hint of worry in his tone. “So far. So... different.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say, though the words feel like a promise I’m not sure I can keep.
I look around at their faces, at the home I’ve always known, and a pang of longing hits me so hard it almost knocks the wind out of me. But beneath it all, a thrill of excitement, a spark of possibility, ignites in my chest.
This is my chance. Finally, I can repay everything they did for me to reach this point in my life. The long hours my father worked before he passed, the way my mother took on odd jobs to pay for my tuition, the way my brothers worked extra shifts to ensure I had everything I needed for my research, the way my sister watched the kids and cooked for everyone so I could focus on my studies.
They sacrificed so much for me, and now, I finally have the opportunity to give something back.
I smile until my cheeks hurt, letting their joy carry me. “It’s not just a green card,” I tell them, my voice growing more confident with each word. “With my thesis, the publication, the international recognition..Apex Dynamics saw my work. They offered me an internship.”
More stunned silence, and this time, it’s Emre, my younger brother, who speaks up, his usual playful grin replaced by a look of genuine awe. “Apex Dynamics? The tech giant? The one that does all that wildlife conservation stuff?”
“The very same,” I confirm, my heart swelling with pride. “They’re the best in the field. And they want me.”
That night, long after the celebrations have died down and the apartment has fallen quiet, I sit on the small balcony attached to my room, the cool night air a welcome relief against my skin.
The lights of Istanbul glitter across the Bosphorus, a beautiful, sprawling tapestry that I’ve known my entire life. I pull my knees to my chest, the reality of it all finally sinking in. I’m leaving. I’m leaving all of this behind.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down to see a video call from Dr. Emir. My mentor, my guide, the one who pushed me to publish my thesis, who saw the potential in me when I was just a scared student in his crowded classroom. I smile and accept the call, his familiar, weathered face filling the screen.
“Ayla,” he says, his voice warm and proud. “I heard the news. I knew you could do it.”
“Thank you, hocam,” I say, using the formal term of respect. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Nonsense,” he waves a dismissive hand. “This is all you. Your hard work, your passion. Apex Dynamics is lucky to have you.” He pauses, his expression turning serious. “But be careful, Ayla. America is different. The corporate world... it’s not like academia. It’s a jungle out there. Don’t let them change who you are.”
“I won’t,” I promise, though a sliver of doubt snakes through me. “I’ll make you proud.”
“You already have,” he says, and then he smiles. I have never seen him smile this bright. “Now go. Enjoy your last few weeks. But call me when you land. I want to hear all about it.”
We say our goodbyes, and I’m left staring out at the city, the weight of his words settling over me. A jungle. That’s what he called it. And I can’t help but feel like I’m about to walk into one, unarmed and alone.
The following few weeks blur by with activity: goodbye parties, packing, endless paperwork, and tearful promises to call and visit. My family helps me sort through my life, packing my clothes and books into boxes, while my mother carefully wraps a small ceramic piece in layers of bubble wrap.
“You can’t forget this,” she says, pressing it into my hands. “For when you miss home. For when you need a proper cup of tea.”
“I won’t,” I say, my throat tight with emotion.
The day of my flight is grey and overcast, a perfect mirror for the storm of feelings raging inside me. We’re a chaotic, loving mess at the airport, hugging, crying, and laughing all at once. Hasan presses a wad of cash into my hand, his face stern.
“Call us if you need anything,” he says, his eyes pleading. I looked down at the folded dollars in my palm. I didn’t want to know how many extra shifts he’d worked for them. I felt bad for taking it, and as if he could hear my thoughts, he added, “We are here for you.”
“Always,” Mehmet says, pulling me into a tight hug. I melt into his embrace, breathing in the scent of his cologne. The same cheap cologne he’s worn since he was sixteen. Fatma is next, her wise, gentle eyes filled with a mix of pride and worry.
Emre and Leyla cling to me, already imagining which amusement park we’ll visit first, as if the visit is a certainty. Then there’s my mother. She holds me for a long time, her body trembling slightly, whispering prayers as a fragile shield against the fears we all share.
“My brave girl,” she says, her voice thick with tears. “Go and conquer the world.”
I finally have to walk away. The ache in my chest is so sharp it feels physical. I wave one last time, my vision blurry with tears, then I turn and head toward security, toward my new life, leaving a piece of my soul behind in the busy airport.
The flight is long and uncomfortable, twelve hours of stale air and recycled movies. I try to sleep, but my mind races with thoughts of my family, my new job, and the unknown that awaits me in Seattle. By the time we land, I’m exhausted and disoriented, a bundle of nerves and excitement. I collect my luggage, my small, battered suitcase feeling impossibly heavy as I navigate through the busy airport.
I step out of the airport, and the Seattle air hits me—wet, clean, and smelling of pine and damp earth. Of course, it’s raining. A soft, persistent drizzle that soaks into my clothes almost instantly. I pull my thin jacket tighter around me, shivering as I scan the area for the Uber I ordered. The city is a smear of grey and green, so different from the sun-drenched, vibrant chaos of Istanbul. I’m here. I’m really here.
