It was Saturday morning. I heard loud noises of moving furniture in the next room. I could almost feel the excitement of John who was soon going to get a room of his own. I remember my own feelings when I was 13. I knew how much he longed for his right to privacy (私人空间) when he was sharing a room with his younger brother, Robot. He said, “Mum, Can I please have a room of my own? I could use Jeff’s. He won’t mind.”

It was true that Jeff had graduated from college and flown from the nest. But would he mind? The room was the place where I told him a thousand stories and we had a thousand talks. As close as we were, though, the time came when Jeff needed a door between us. His life was spreading into areas that had less to do with family. I no longer could-or should-know everything about him.

It turned out that getting Jeff’s permission was easy. He said, “Of course, Mum, it would be selfish of me to hold on to it.” Then his voice softened, “Mum, I won’t be living at home again---you know that.” Behind his glasses, his eyes were lit with all the love. There were no doors closed here---they had all opened up again.

As John and I were cleaning the room, I fixed my eyes on Jeff’s things around me and could almost touch the little boy who I knew was gone forever. I looked at the room and, in my heart, I let it go. To hold on would be, as Jeff said, selfish. Now it was time for John, shouldering through the door, his eyes bright with promise of independence, to disappear behind the door. It was time for letting go to happen again.

I hated wearing a burqa. It made me itch; it made me sweat. And it made me invisible. Mine was blue with a small lace opening for the eyes, though underneath I wore a short-sleeved dress and tights. Walking in a burqa, I lost my usual confident gait: I hung my head lower, both hands clutching the edge of the fabric so I wouldn’t stumble. The very fact of wearing it made me feel inferior. To leave the house, when I became a teenager about a decade ago, I had to transform myself into a thing.

My way of protesting was to go out as little as possible, which seemed to be the only way I could protect my individuality. But I yearned to participate in life directly rather than simply observe it through my veil.

My parents, too, wanted me to step into my fullest potential. When other mothers praised their daughters for their cooking and housework, mine would claim that a woman’s real jewel is her education. When other fathers focused on how quickly they could marry their daughters, my father laughed if someone came to our house with a marriage proposal.

On some nights, when the neighbourhood was sleeping and only stray dogs occupied the roads, my father would walk with me outside the house to give me a taste of the world without a burqa. In the shadow of moonlight, we would stroll, hearing the sounds of crickets and dogs rummaging through rubbish. With each step I took, I felt free. Once my father disguised me as a boy to swim in the river that I used to go to when I was a child. He didn’t want me to forget what it felt like to be free.

Sometimes I would get angry and loudly complain that I was forced to cage myself in a burqa. My mother would look at me with a solemn expression, place her hand on my head, and say, “Be someone who can leave this place.” She encouraged me to learn English.

And I did. Armed with an iPad, the internet and a free education website called Khan Academy, I taught myself English, philosophy, maths, science, and history. While most young women my age were getting married, I was learning how to argue like Socrates or apply mathematics like Newton. With each new thing I learned, I began to feel alive, like a plant that blooms when it gets water after it has been parched and dying. By allowing me the freedom of education, my parents gave me a window to the world. More than that, they gave me the tools to create my own identity and make myself visible again.