“Ahlan wa sahlan, Hanan,” she said, a hesitant look on her face. She made no move to approach me, so neither did I. I instinctively knew—I knew she had interpreted my visit as a signal of defeat on my part, my way of saying, “You were so right, Mama. That damned Amerkani—he knocked me up and then he left me. I should have listened to you.” Determined not to let her feel satisfied or victorious, I focused my attention on the person I had really come to see—Baba.

“This is Michael,” I said, “and he’s really excited to meet you.” I tried to put my sleepy son in Baba’s arms, but Baba insisted on sitting down first. As he sank down into the cushions of the large, green fabric sofa, I gently laid Michael in his lap. Baba’s left arm instinctively slid up under Michael’s neck, supporting his bobbing head.

Michael slowly awoke, arriving out of his groggy fog to see a stranger peering down at him. And so he screeched and screeched, crying until his face was suffused with color—“just like his father,” I thought, and took him back to soothe him. Rather than look hurt, Baba chuckled. “Layla,” he said to my mother, “do you hear the voice on this boy?”

Mama, I realized, had moved up behind me, gazing down at Michael. “Shhhh …” she whispered softly to him, and Michael, who obviously intended on displeasing me today, ceased his screeching and gazed in wonderment at my mother.

“Shater, habibi …” she cooed. “Bit hib Teta, Mi-keel?” She clucked her tongue at him, and my son actually gurgled in delight. His first quasi-laugh.

“How about some lemonade?” Baba asked, breaking the brief silence. “Layla, get us three glasses, please? It’s so humid today, and summer only just got started.”

“It’s been hot alright,” I agreed, while Mama bustled off to the kitchen, her wooden sandals clacking sharply on the wooden floor of the dining room, then issuing a higher, sharper sound when her heels hit the tiles of the kitchen floor. “I’m glad you guys finally have an air conditioner down here,” I added, nodding at the unit in the front window.

“Had to. It was getting to be too much. And upstairs was worse—it was like murder trying to sleep last summer.”

“I can imagine,” I said, turning Michael so he could face my father. “How are you feeling?”

“OK.” He tickled Michael gently, tapping the tip of his nose.

“Come on, Mikey,” I silently begged my son. “Laugh for your grandfather.” But he didn’t—he just stared at Baba confusedly, and Baba at last surrendered by kissing his cheek and then patting the spot with his fingers.

“Just OK?”

“Yeah, you know. I’m on all these pills now. Can’t eat the foods I want—your mom changed the way she cooks everything.”

“I’m sorry, Baba.”