We called and called, begged, pleaded, threatened, cried; we tried everything, yet our shipment was simply not coming. Not only did we end up waiting over two weeks for it, but we were continuously given false hope. “It will probably be delivered today,” we heard for days, waiting, staying at home keeping by the phone, and then, “Sorry, not today, but probably tomorrow.”
Then on Friday afternoon while at soccer, I got a call from a man saying he would be delivering 30 boxes to our house within an hour. By now, I had heard “Wolf” so many times however, that I couldn’t entirely believe him, although it sure sounded more positive than any other phone call we had got, so I went home. Two hours later I had almost given up hope, when it suddenly arrived. There they were, our boxes that we last saw in Cairo mid-August. They looked like they had been through a lot; some of them were coated in an oily substance, and most of them were so beat up they literally just fell apart when the men put them down. Some boxes had been opened, and virtually all of the boxes were put upside down. But they were all there, and we all started opening them as they entered the house, like Christmas. "My Darth Maul!” and “Ahhh, my Groundworks, how have you been?” Abraham’s high chair, his bed, my cups and tea pot, the boys’ toys, our pictures, sheets and blankets, our books; our dear personal belongings had finally arrived. Home, sweet home!