“Doesn’t everything always start for fun?” Sylvia says with a shrug. “You know, my sister Rachel is a writer. A journalist. But she’s been asked to consider turning her work into a book. If you ever want to talk to someone about publishing, I’m sure she’d be happy to speak with you.”

It’s the first time I’ve let “writer” be attached to my name, and it makes me itchy in a way that isn’t as bad as it sounds to have someone take it seriously. I can’t imagine talking to a professional about it, ever, but I say “maybe, thank you” through a mouthful of rice.

“Rachel’s really cool,” Jasmine tells me. “She does a ton of reporting on the Middle East and she’s been everywhere. She wins awards and stuff.”

“Where is she now?” I ask.

“Officially, she lives in DC, but barely. She’s probably traveling somewhere like Morocco or Jordan.” Jasmine says it a little dreamily, and it’s obvious Rachel is kind of her idol.

It must be obvious to Sylvia too, because she says, “It’s interesting how cool you find it when Rachel travels, considering you used to have a meltdown every time your father did when you were little. I used to beg him not to go because I couldn’t take another one, but of course, that never stopped him.”

Immediately, Jasmine stiffens. We’ve talked about how our moms do that thing where they find ways to mention our dads just to criticize them. But while I don’t care—I know my dad’s a dick and I have nothing to do with him—Declan is very much in Jasmine’s life.

I don’t know whether Sylvia realizes she’s pissed off her daughter or senses that might’ve been a little much in front of company, but she gives an embarrassed cough, takes a sip of water, and asks what my father does.

I feel bad for both of them—for all of us, really. “Pays child support on time,” I say, and there’s a stunned silence before Sylvia bursts out in laughter. That even makes Jasmine grin.

“What more can we expect from them, really?” Sylvia says dryly, and we all laugh again.

It’s a weird night.

In the best way.

We talk until the tall white candles Sylvia lit to bring in the Sabbath have melted to nothing and only traces of honey and pistachio crumbs remain on the dessert tray. Then we sip tea with real mint leaves in it while Sylvia shows me old photos of Jasmine, and I laugh at her extensive princess phase until there are actual tears in my eyes. By the time we go to bed, it’s nearly midnight, and I feel like I’m glowing from the inside out from the warmth of it all.