“I grew up being told I’m a Karalis woman, and we went to Greece and everyone treated me like I’m one of them and I can make avgolemono … I grew up with it all; it’s my family’s culture, so I think it’s mine, too, but I don’t know—is that appropriation? It’s all very … confusing. And I don’t like being confused. I wish there were some way to determine the right answer.”

“An identity formula?”

“Yes. EXACTLY.”

I grip my cup. The words are spilling out of me, and I can’t stop them because there is something else about my parents being gone that has been bothering me, something I haven’t even been able to tell myself.

“Everyone’s talking about race and culture all the time,” I say. “Owning what you are, who you are. Shouting it from the rooftops. More and more, it’s all about your heritage. But what does that mean for someone like me? I love avgolemono. And My Big Fat Greek Wedding. And, even though I don’t believe in it, I really liked all the evil eyes my yia-yia hung around the house. And I want them to be mine—my culture, a part of me. But they’re not. The problem is, if I got a DNA test and found out I was Norwegian or something, I wouldn’t be that, either. Because blood isn’t culture. I don’t have any connection to Norway at all!”

“You’re American. That’s a culture.” He smiles. “Playing devil’s advocate, by the way. I get what you mean.”

“No, you’re right. I am American. But. American culture is immigrant culture. Everyone has these culturally identifiable last names. These stories about ancestors immigrating. Family recipes and language and all that. Everyone! Only Native Americans don’t have immigration stories, but they have their own stories. Migration stories, obviously. They have tribes. My dad’s family loves talking about the Mayflower and showing us graves in the old cemeteries here—we have Revolutionary War soldiers in the family, Civil War soldiers. There’s this line—of people and stories—that connects everyone in the Winters and Karalis families, and I don’t have any of that.”

“But you do,” he says. “Having Puritan weirdo ancestors and Greek grandparents who came over after World War Two is your family’s story. And you’re part of your family. Ergo, I think all that stuff is yours. Those are your stories. Your culture. I really don’t think people have a right, at least in your situation, to say otherwise. I don’t know, I’m not Greek, so maybe some fully Greek person might not agree, but that’d be pretty harsh.”

Our family—it’s done.

“When I was little, I got a black marker, tried to make my hair like Hannah’s and Mom’s.”