"We were homeless in Marrakech."
The first time my daughter told someone, I shot her the eye. People knew we spent summers in Morocco, but what happened in Morocco was supposed to stay there. My children weren't to tell anyone — not even their father — about the smoke-filled cafés we frequented in Essaouira, or about the time we got stuck on a country road in hundred degree weather and had to hitchhike back to Ouarzazate.
