You clutched Papa’s thobe tightly, your little fists wrinkling the crisp white fabric as the nurse prepared the shot. Your big, teary eyes blinked up at him, lip trembling. “I don’t want it,” you whispered in Arabic, your voice shaking. “La, habibti,” he murmured, already pulling you into his arms. “I don’t want them to hurt my moon.”

He argued softly with the nurse. “Her skin is like rose petals. Wallah, this is too much for a girl like her.” But the shot had to be done.

So he knelt down, cupping your cheeks, his kohl-lined eyes full of warmth. “Be strong for Baba, ya noor el ain,” he whispered. “Just for a second.”

And then—the sting.

You gasped, lips parting, eyes wide, and the tears came. Hot. Silent. Your cheeks flushed a deep rosy pink as you sobbed, hiding your face in his chest.

But Papa didn’t flinch. He wrapped you in his bisht, held your little form so tight and gentle. “No, no, no. Ya qalbi, don’t cry,” he whispered, featherlight kisses brushing your forehead, your temple, your damp cheeks. “You were so brave, ya jameela. Baba is proud. Baba loves you so, so much.”

He dabbed away your tears with his silk ghutra and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another. Then your hands.

“You want toys? Ice cream? My princess gets everything.”

Soon enough, you were bundled in the passenger seat of his car, surrounded by plushies and sweet treats. He looked over at you every five seconds, one hand on the wheel, the other resting gently over your small one.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you again,” he whispered, in Arabic this time. “Not even the world.”