When I finally had a plate together, Brother Khalid stood slightly from his seat anxiously. I had to do it right this time. I tried to focus all my energy on that: not the feelings, not the constant knot of worry or fear, but the need to do right, to make this better. I had to be Goldilocks. For my mom.

“Here you are,” I said, setting the plate down in front of him.

It was simple, if you compared it to what he could whip up with a half hour and a hot stove. I might have added a little too much taco seasoning to the ground beef, and the salsa had gotten a little mushier than I had hoped, but it was food, and it was Halal. Seeing the way his eyes lit up, I hoped he wasn’t so hungry he’d miss what I wanted him to taste in it.

I care.

I do.

And I’m sorry if you thought I didn’t.

His eyes widened as he took his first bite.

“Wow. Em, this is really good!”

“You like it? Really?”

“Best tacos ever.”

He ate in silence, but it was a warm silence, and I was happy enough to just sit there and watch him eat.

He did say one thing, though, at one point.

“You did eat too, right?”

The warmth of that moment—of his eyes, as anxious as Yulia’s when she asked the same question—made my stomach feel a little too full.

“Yeah,” I said, grateful that my throat didn’t catch on the word.

“Good.” He took his last bite and smiled. “I’m glad.”

We sat there together, and then he cleared his throat. “Well, uh, you should probably go up. You have school in the morning.”

“Oh. Uh. Yes. Right. Good night.”

I turned to leave. I could leave it there. We were at peace with each other. I knew he wasn’t a phase, or a replacement for Dad. He was my stepfather, and the man my mom chose, and we could live in harmony with each other.

It wouldn’t be the same as before, but it didn’t have to be.

But something made me turn.

“Brother Khalid?”

He startled. “Oh. Yes, Em?”

“Do . . . do you want to make breakfast in the morning together? I’m in the mood for French toast.”

There was a long pause, and then, slowly, he smiled. “I would like that.”

I thought I would, too.

And afterward, maybe I would tell Rehan he was right. I felt fuller already.

Gilman Street

Gilman
Street

Michelle Ruiz Keil

To the Bubble Lady Julia Vingograd, poet laureate of People’s Park