“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.”

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?”