“It’s the oldest city in the world, you cow,” she said to me. “Way long ago. Older than Jericho, even. If you were any good in school you’d know that.” I looked it up later with Jehad’s help, hoping to prove I was smart. “Sitti, I know Ein el-Sultan was established in 7000 BC.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Sitti said. “Maybe you should work on losing some weight. No one is going to marry a cow.”

Sitti Wasfiyeh had moments of kindness too. Braiding my hair in grade school. Teaching me to roll grape leaves, carve zucchini, and bake bread. But she could be mean for no reason at times, which nearly always coincided with calls to her daughters, aunts I had only heard of who lived in Jordan. To make matters worse, my brother could do no wrong in Sitti Wasfiyeh’s eyes, which made her insults all the more wounding. Mama would tell me not to be so sensitive: “She’s an ornery old woman, what can we do? She doesn’t mean any of it.”

I gave it back to Sitti Wasfiyeh when I was fifteen and already believing I was bad. I was the leader of a gang that pulled pranks on teachers. I regularly stole candy from the corner store and one time let a boy kiss me on the lips. I back-talked adults and once even made Sitti Wasfiyeh cry.

“You’re a mean old woman,” I yelled. “That’s why your daughters haven’t asked you to live with them. It’s not because they’re moving, or their houses are too small, or whatever other lies they feed you. It’s because you’re a nasty old woman nobody wants around, and if you don’t learn how to speak to us better, we’re going to throw you out too. All three of us are crammed into one bedroom so you can have your own room. You should be kissing my mother’s feet for what she has done for you. If it was up to me, I’d throw you out on the street. And you know very well your stupid daughters don’t send us a dime. The next time you accuse my mother of taking your money, I might personally throw you the hell out.” No one my age spoke to their elders in such a manner. I was bad.

Mama whacked me with her rubber slipper. “Don’t you ever speak to your grandmother that way,” she screamed, the stings of her slipper on my skin punctuating each word. “If your father, may God rest his soul, were here, he’d put stripes all over your body with his belt.” I was glad my father wasn’t around then. He probably would have done exactly that.

“How can you possibly defend her? She treats you even worse!” I cried.

My mother dropped her slipper, breathless from the effort. She didn’t have much fight in her since Baba died. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and led me toward the veranda, but only after I apologized to Sitti Wasfiyeh, kissed her hand three times, and kept my mouth shut when she said, “You’re like a wild animal. Not raised right.”