Jamal did, of course. “Uncle Rami was a menace.”

“He was,” she agreed, smiling. Then she looked back at me. “But he was also stubborn. And he thought he had to deal with everything alone.”

Jamal waggled his brows at me. “Good luck,” he mouthed.

I shot him a look, then pushed myself up from the booth.

Tiffany leaned back with a dramatic scoff. “Ugh, whatever. You, Jamal the Great, owe me gas money.”

I followed Jamal’s mom into the back, where the scent of cardamom and simmering broth wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. The kitchen was small but warm, filled with quiet movement—pots steaming, knives tapping against wooden cutting boards, the low hum of the radio playing something soft in Arabic.

I hesitated at the doorway, unsure why I was here.

She didn’t look at me as she poured steaming water over some loose tea leaves. “Come, come.”

I sighed and stepped forward.

“Sit,” she said softly, gesturing to the stool near the counter.

I sat.

She stirred the tea, her movements slow, deliberate, the scent of honey and cinnamon rising between us.

For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.

The quiet was unnerving.

Then, softly, she said, “You’ve lost weight.”

I shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

She made a quiet noise, like she didn’t approve of that answer, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached into the cabinet, pulled down another cup, and poured a second serving of tea.

She placed it in front of me.

I stared at it.

“Drink,” she said.

I didn’t.

Her sharp gaze flicked up to me, and I swear to God, I felt seen in a way I wasn’t ready for.

“Tell me.”

Tell her what?

That I hadn’t slept? That my head ached all the time? That my hands sometimes shook for no reason? That I had spent the last four months drowning in a silence so heavy, I was starting to forget what my own voice sounded like?

That I missed Beverly? That I missed me?

That I missed Beverly so much, I felt physically ill?

That I thought about touching her every time my hands were empty? That I dreamed about her? That I woke up most nights with her name stuck in my throat like a wound that wouldn’t close? That my mother was sick and I was terrified? That I had spent my whole life believing I could survive anything if I just braced for it hard enough, but now I wasn’t so sure?

I clenched my jaw, staring at the tea. “I’m fine,” I lied.

She made a sound that was half a scoff, half a sigh. “That’s what men always say when they are falling apart.” And then—gently, like she was handling something fragile—she placed her hand over mine. I tensed. “Yaa ibni,” she murmured. My son.

My throat closed.