Mama had refused to replace anything that still worked or served its purpose. I knew that the cushions on the couch were worn out on the underside. Once the maroon velour on top wore out as well, it might be time to talk about a new set. But she still complained that leaving the plastic covers on would have preserved it forever.

“It’s the mentality left over from how she grew up,” Baba said. “From the camps, you know how life was there.” He rocked Michael gently, and I saw my son rub his eyes sleepily.

“He’ll be out soon,” I said. “Keep rocking him … It’s time for his nap soon anyway.” We sat quietly together, watching Michael drift off to sleep, his eyelids fluttering as he tried valiantly to ward off his drowsiness. When he finally succumbed, I went to put him back in his carseat, but Baba wouldn’t let me. “I’ll hold him … it’s OK.”

“He looks like our family, doesn’t he?”

“His eyes are dark like ours. And his fingers are shaped like mine, I think.” Baba picked up Michael’s left hand and studied it. I moved closer to see. He was right—Michael’s fingers were long, but wider at the base and then tapering down to the fingernails. Baba’s hands were the same, like isosceles triangles.

“You know my father’s hands were like this too.”

I looked at my own fingers, which were shorter and slim, the fingertips squared. Like my mother’s.

“I wish I’d known him,” I said. “And Siti too.”

“Well, he died in ’74, not long after your grandmother.” Baba settled into his chair and leaned his head back. “The men overseas—they depend so much on their wives. If the woman dies first, everyone says the husband will follow soon. And he usually does.”

“Really?” I asked skeptically, thinking that of all the couples I knew, most of the men seemed like they would live longer if their wives went first. The quality of life might improve drastically.

“Oh, the women are the strong ones,” he said, nodding. “They keep the house together, the family together. My parents came to America in 1944, but then they went back in the 1960s—once I was eighteen, actually.”

“Why didn’t they stay?”

“They had land they wanted to protect—it was a bad time. Land was being snatched, and everyone was worried that if they stayed away, they’d have nothing left when they went home.”

He took a sip of his iced tea, then added, “Home is everything.” I looked down, away from his eyes.

“Did I ever tell you about when your grandfather was kidnapped by the Ottomans?” he asked brightly, deliberately changing the subject. I shook my head.

“During World War I, the Ottomans were under attack by the British, the French, everyone,” he began. “And their army was losing so they used to come to the villages and take the young men, draft them into the army, and make them fight. Usually those men died or they were just never seen again.”