Within five minutes, I had made sixty dollars. I called Aliyah at the house—“Pack up Michael and bring me all the baskets on my table in the basement—quick, quick!”

“Breast milk and baskets,” she muttered. “You need a freaking secretary.”

In June, Michael turned three months old, and I drove him to South Philadelphia to meet his grandparents.

I had finally broken down—the day before Father’s Day—and called my parents’ house. I actually had to look up the phone number in my cell phone log since I had not dialed it in over a year. Baba answered, thankfully, and I was so relieved to hear his voice that I realized I must have been afraid I’d have to speak to my mother.

“Yes, please come,” Baba said. “I cannot wait to see my grandson.”

“His name is … it’s Michael.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I heard. Thank you.”

When I pulled up in front of my parents’ house, I noticed Joey and Sammy, the neighbor’s two young sons, lounging on their stoop, exchanging bubble gum pack cards. When they saw me, they shouted at me to stop and scurried to move two folding chairs that were marking a parking space in front of my parents’ house. “Your dad told us to save the spot,” Joey shouted, as I backed my SUV and slid in.

“Jeez—that’s a huge truck!” Sammy exclaimed. “Did your guy give it to you when he dumped you?” He was stunned into silence when his older brother promptly whacked his arm.

“That’s OK, Sammy. Wanna meet my boy?” I got out and opened the back door, unbuckling a sleepy Michael out of his seat.

“Man, he’s so little!” Joey said, standing on his toes to see the baby.

“He looks fake,” Sammy declared.

“How come you get to meet my grandson before I do?” Baba stood behind the screen door, grinning widely as he watched us. I had to restrain a look of dismay. Baba was shriveled and frail, his once erect posture now slumped, as if his spine had melted away.

“Hi Baba,” I said in the cheeriest voice I could muster. “I’ll come in so you can meet him.” I kissed both Joey and Sammy on their foreheads. “Thanks for saving my spot. Say hi to your mom for me.”

Baba held the door wide, and I handed in the carrying seat to him, then stepped inside with Michael in my arms. I kissed Baba’s cheeks, twice on each side, and then turned to see Mama standing by the coffee table, her hands folded in front of her. Her hair was shorter, curled, neatly trimmed and soft around her ears. She wore the same clothes I’d always seen her wear—long black pants and a baggy, button-down shirt, sprayed with tropical flowers and prints. On her feet were her signature black house slippers with the wooden soles.