Noting my shock, my mother continued, “Yeah, it’s crazy. Those bitches snatched up their mama as soon as they heard.” Mama was rarely so blunt. “They negotiated some type of ‘advance’ and took nearly all of it. Suddenly they wanted your grandmother to live with them, but she kept criticizing their kids and whatnot. You know how she is. They brought her back after a couple of weeks and offered to pay me to take care of her.” Mama twisted her face again. “Can you believe it? I just asked them what the hell did they think I had been doing for the past thirty-odd years? Those bitches.”

“Mama, that’s a lot of money. We can’t just let them show up and take everything!” I protested.

“There’s not a lot I can do about it. Luckily, your grandmother listens to your brother most of all, and he’s talking some sense into her,” she said. Still, my mother didn’t seem as interested in the money as I thought she ought to be. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t seen her smoke a single cigarette since I’d returned.

“I quit,” she said matter-of-factly.

I looked at my mother more closely, noticing new details. She was wearing makeup and her nails were painted. Her hijab was different, more modern and colorful. “Are you in love or something?” I asked.

“No, silly girl!” she protested. She had gotten a “respectable job.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve always worked a respectable job!” I said.

She was employed at a women’s crisis center, answering phones, organizing support group meetings, and managing a team of volunteers. “It’s a DESK JOB! I’m running the whole place. Can you believe it?”

I had not understood until then how humiliated my mother had felt by her life. The simple dignity of a “desk job,” as she called it, had transformed her. I should have said it again, that her embroidery was more special than any “desk job” could be; that she was an artist; that Western images of professional women don’t have to apply to us; that concepts of respectability and modernity are manufactured. Instead, I just congratulated her. She added, “They’re also training me to use a computer soon. Can you believe it?”

Sabah came the next morning, bearing gifts of food—dates, mangoes, pomegranates, and vegetables that she raised in pots on her balcony. “Look how red it is. Wait until you taste it. I got the seeds from family in Palestine,” she said, holding up a tomato. “Let’s make breakfast. There’s so much to catch up on.” She removed her hijab in the kitchen and started peeling cucumbers. I put on the kettle and got a pan to fry eggs.

“You still don’t use enough oil, girl,” Sabah said, shaking her head. “And you know you shouldn’t waste good olive oil on frying.”