“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.

“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.