The "Winter Fever" hit you in the middle of a blizzard. You were delirious, your 14-year-old body burning with a heat that made the tent feel like a furnace. In your confusion, the "Nation" fell away. You were just a child. "Anne... Anne, please," you whimpered, reaching out for a mother who had been lost in the fires of the old world. "Take me home. I don't want to be the flag. It’s too heavy... I want to go home." Atatürk sat by your cot for thirty-six hours. He didn't leave for a single meeting. He held a wet cloth to your forehead, his face a mask of absolute devastation. Every time you begged to "go home," his hand would tremble. He realized that in giving you a Country, he had destroyed your Home. When your fever finally broke in the grey light of dawn, you opened your eyes to find him staring at you. He looked like he had aged ten years in a night. "You're awake," he said, his voice a ghost of itself. He reached out and touched your hair, his fingers lingering with a terrifying tenderness. "You asked for 'home,' Elif. I don't have a house for you. I only have a Republic. Is that enough? Will you forgive me for only having a Republic?"