“Tea coming up. And I have an even better idea. Wait.” I went to the kitchen to start the kettle, then filled a small plastic tub with warm water and heaps of black salt. I gathered a few towels, a bottle of nail polish, two small volcanic rocks from the bathroom, and a jar of body butter I had made the day before from olive oil, coconut butter, rosewater, eucalyptus leaves, and thyme.

I returned with the tray of tea glasses and fetched the tub and cream. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you,” I instructed. “And just lift your dishdasha to your knees.”

She did as I said, exposing her lower legs. I lifted her feet one by one and gently placed them into the warm black-salt water. She let out a long, satisfied sigh as she opened her eyes. “This feels wonderful, my daughter. God bless you and bring you love and happiness.”

“Keep the prayers going. There’s more. Get ready for my specialty pedicure!” I said.

I rubbed Mama’s feet in the salt water, scrubbing off the dead skin with the volcanic rocks. She put her embroidery aside to enjoy the pampering. I wrapped her feet in hot towels, cut away the cuticles on her toes, cleaned the nails, buffed and painted them red, then massaged my special butter into her feet and calves. It pleased me to watch her relax—tension and aches dissolving in my hands.

“I don’t know why you don’t just open your own salon. You’ve always been so good at these things. I don’t know anyone who knows more about beauty and health. You do everything. Eyebrows, waxing, haircuts, blowouts, nails, feet, makeup, skin care. Everything! And you’re the only person I know who makes natural cosmetics. People would pay a lot of money to feel as good as you’re making me feel right now,” she said.

“You really think that could work?” I was daring in many things, but not with what little money we had.

“Of course! When have you ever known me not to tell the truth?”

Sitti Wasfiyeh, who had just returned from a visit with her daughters, was hobbling through the door on her cane as Mama spoke. “You lie all the time,” she said casually. “What did you two make to eat today? I hope it’s good.”

Mama and I laughed quietly, and she called out, “Welcome back, Hajjeh! We missed you all day. I made mlookhiya, soupy, the way you like it.”

And I added, “Didn’t my aunts feed you?”

We waited to hear the lie and complaints we knew were coming.

“Oh. That’s nice. But I wanted msakhan today, and you know my daughters’ cooking is shit since they moved in with their in-laws. They’re not allowed to cook the way I taught them,” she said, rekindling our laughter, which made Sitti Wasfiyeh even grumpier.