My mother took this picture of my father and I on Father's day in the late 90's. We were all spending the weekend somewhere upstate New York—discovering a new town like we used to do. This day was also my last day with my father. My parents decided that it was best for my mother to take my brother and I back to Egypt in order for us not forget about our culture, heritage, and language. All my extended family were back in Egypt. Only my father stayed in New York. I was still a five-year-old who did not know that us going to Egypt meant that my father was not going to meet us there. That decision meant that for the next 10 years my mother was going to be the one who raises my brother and I. My father visited us on occasions. During the summer he would take off from work to come spend it with us. However, I remember constantly asking my mother why aren't we living with my father?; why aren't we all living together? I did not care if it was in Egypt or back in New York, but I just did not get why we were not together like all of my friends. Now that we are all back in New York together, I realized that my story is similar to many other stories of immigrants. My father had to stay here to work and provide for us. He recognized that staying in Egypt wasn't going to secure a future for my brother and I. Whether or not I agree with my parents' decision to send us back to Egypt to grow up there does not matter. I am just happy we are all back under one roof.