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On Monday, Uncle, Aunt and I are having breakfast together when I say, “I want to see Dr Khan.” Two pairs of eyes snap from their tasks. Uncle pauses drinking his morning coffee and reading from his tablet. Aunt stops packing my lunch, her hands shaking around the container. “Are you having nightmares again? What did you see?” Her tone is almost hysterical. “Stop it, Blair.” Uncle abandons his coffee and tablet on the table and rises to his feet. I face him as he clutches my shoulders and says in a cool voice, “Are you all right, pumpkin? Why didn’t you call us when you had the nightmares?” I can’t help noticing the difference between Aunt and Uncle’s reactions. Her eyes are shifty and she keeps opening and closing the container as if she’s not aware of what she’s doing. Whenever the topic of my nightmares resurfaces, Aunt never asked me if I was okay. Her first question was always ‘what did you see?’ Uncle, on the other hand, always asked if I was fine. It’s weird. In everything else,