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“Are you all right?” I studied him.

“Yes.” He scratched his head and mumbled something to himself. “I am sorry about bringing up this matter again. I know it will upset you, but I have to be honest with you,” Leslie said. He walked around the room and began: “We cannot locate any immediate family member of yours, so we have to find you a foster family here in the city. I hope that will be fine with you. I will check on you after you’ve completed your rehabilitation to see how you are doing in your new life.” He sat down and, looking at me, continued, “Well, do you have any concerns or questions?”

“Yes, I think so,” I said. I told him that before the war my father had spoken about my uncle, who lived in the city. I did not even know what he looked like, much less where he lived.

“What is his name?” Leslie asked.

“His name is Tommy and my father told me he is a carpenter,” I replied.

Leslie was writing my mysterious uncle’s name in his notebook. After he was done scribbling his notes, he said, “No promises, but I will see what I can find out. I will get back to you soon.” He paused, tapped me on the shoulder, and continued, “I hear you are doing great. Keep it up.”

He walked out of the room. I didn’t count on him being able to find my uncle in such a big city, especially with the little information I had provided. I left the room and went to see Esther at the other side of the building. She was busy putting away the new supplies of bandages and medicines in the cabinets that hung on the walls of the room. As soon as she noticed that I was standing in the doorway, she began to smile, but continued doing her work. I sat and waited for her to finish.

“So how did the meeting with Leslie go?” she asked as she put the last box of medicine away. I told her everything he had said, ending with my skepticism about whether Leslie would be able to find my uncle. She listened carefully and said, “You never know. He might find him.”

One Saturday afternoon, as I chatted with Esther and Mohamed, Leslie walked in, smiling widely. I suspected he had found me a foster home and that I was going to be “repatriated”—the term used to describe the process of reuniting ex–child soldiers with their former communities.

“What is the good news?” Esther asked. Leslie examined my curious face, then walked back to the door and opened it. A tall man walked in. He had a wide, genuine smile that made his face look like a little boy’s. His hands were long and he looked at me directly, smiling. He wasn’t as light-skinned as my father.

“This is your uncle,” Leslie proudly announced.

“How de body, Ishmael?” the man said, and walked over to where I was sitting. He bent over and embraced me long and hard. My arms hung loose at my sides.

What if he is just some man pretending to be my uncle? I thought. The man let go of me. He was crying, which is when I began to believe that he was really my family, because his crying was genuine and men in my culture rarely cried.

He crouched on his heels next to me and began, “I am sorry I never came to see you all those years. I wish I had met you before today. But we can’t go back now. We just have to start from here. I am sorry for your losses. Leslie told me everything.” He looked at Leslie with thankful eyes and continued, “After you are done here, you can come and live with me. You are my son. I don’t have much, but I will give you a place to sleep, food, and my love.” He put his arms around me.

No one had called me son in a very long time. I didn’t know what to say. Everyone, it seemed, was waiting for my response. I turned to my uncle, smiled at him, and said, “Thank you for coming to see me. I really appreciate that you have offered me to stay with you. But I don’t even know you.” I put my head down.

“Like I said, we cannot go back. But we can start from here. I am your family and that is enough for us to begin liking each other,” he replied, rubbing my head and laughing a little.

I got up and hugged my uncle, and he embraced me harder than he had the first time and kissed me on my forehead.