I had promised Baba not to stay away, and I did my best to keep it. On a late August day, I drove with Michael down to South Philly again, getting off the expressway and navigating carefully through the tight streets. Michael gurgled in the backseat, and I checked his face in the mirror I had posted on the back headrest. He had to face the rear, so that was the only way I could keep an eye on him. As I waited at a stop sign, I looked again. “We’re going to visit your grandpa, Michael. Your sido,” I said in my merriest voice. I saw my son’s reflection smile.

Baba was waiting for me at the front door as usual. When he saw me approach, he hurried out and waved at me to stop while he removed two chairs from the parking spot he’d saved. I laughed and gave him a thumbs-up sign while I parallel-parked smoothly into the space.

He hugged me tightly when I got out, and I couldn’t help noticing how thin his arms had become. I handed him Michael’s carseat to carry while I lugged the heavy kitchen chairs inside the house.

“Your mother went to the store to do some grocery shopping,” he said apologetically. I nodded, but I knew he was lying.

“I’ll make us some iced tea,” he said, but I stopped him from getting out of his chair.

“I’ll make it,” I explained calmly, as I took Michael out of his seat and placed him gently in my father’s arms. “Michael came to spend some time with his sido.”

While I stood at the kitchen counter, mixing the sugary iced tea powder into a jug of cool water, I listened to my father make gurgling noises to Michael, then sing little ditties quietly to him. I stirred slowly on purpose, taking my time, looking around the kitchen.

It hadn’t changed much since I was a child. The faux oak cabinets hung over the bright yellow formica countertops, and despite their age, they were in perfect condition. I checked the side counter next to the sink and, yes, the scratch mark was still there. I had once etched the counter as a kid with Mama’s keys, dragging a long, sleek line through the formica’s yellow surface, exposing the white plastic beneath. Mama had painted it carefully with yellow paint so that it would not show, and she made it a point to touch up the paint every few months. Even the linoleum on the floor had never been changed, but despite the areas where it had become worn down, it shone with cleanliness and sparkled with careful attention.

“Baba, don’t you guys think it’s time to update the kitchen a bit?” I asked, carrying two glasses back into the living room.

“I wish!” he said, looking up from Michael’s face. “But you know your mother.”