Amina’s entire family erupt in oohs, looking at one another around the table.

“When did your family move here?”

“Are they first generation? Second?”

“From where in—”

“That’s, um . . .” I look to Amina again, and she’s physically wincing. “That’s a little more complicated, I guess? I’m adopted? I don’t know that much. Anything, really.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence, and I look around the table for something, anything, to talk about other than this. It’s never easy. Being . . . this, on the outside, but feeling entirely different inside. I’m not the person people see, and I never know how to talk about it.

And then I see it.

“What is that?” I ask, pointing at something on the table.

“Oh, that’s my pumpkin and sweet potato moussaka!” Amina’s aunt exclaims. I look at Amina, trying so hard not to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and then she looks at the moussaka. “Shut the hell up.”

We’re getting closer to Fitler Square, the neighborhood my family calls home. It’s a bit like Amina’s neighborhood in Queen Village—row houses and the like, the occasional stone building tucked in between, with large towering walls and big windows.

I love my little neighborhood. Really, that’s what Philadelphia is: a bunch of little neighborhoods, scattered all about. There are tons of tiny side streets that are barely half a block in length, tucked away and hidden between blocks, with streets built in the 1800s that cars can’t drive down, and homes so skinny I have no idea how they fit furniture through the doors.

Well, I do know. They shop at Ikea. Like my parents.

“Have I mentioned that I’m sorry?” Amina asks as my parents’ tucked-away side street comes into view.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I’m used to all that.”

“I know but . . . I kind of thought my family wouldn’t be like that?”

“Did you warn them about me?” I ask, grinning.

She smacks my arm.

“Those kinds of questions always come up. It’s not a big deal.” I sigh. Though it kind of feels like it is, I really don’t want to dig into that. It’s my weight.

We turn the corner onto my parents’ side street, Rainey Court, a dead-end street that is hidden away in the middle of a small city block. There are a handful of homes on this street that look out of place—a large white mansion with an obnoxious gate for one, which is right across the street from my parents’ simple row house. Amina scowls at the eyesore, and as we approach my family home, she stops me in the cobblestone street.