“You seem like you’re doing really well, Nadia. I’m happy to see that.” She kicked off her shoes, as she was used to doing in Nadia’s apartment, and sat cross-legged on the couch. The living room was small, with shiny hardwood floors and sofas in beige damask. A hand-embroidered afghan and brightly embroidered pillows decorated every sofa and chair in the small room, lending it a pleasant and intimate atmosphere.

“Thanks. I’m feeling better every day. Back to work now five days a week.” She offered to make coffee or tea, but Reema asked instead for a glass of water. Nadia brought back a tray with two glasses, a small pecan cake, a serving knife, forks and delicate pink plates. “I hope you have an appetite for one of my mom’s pastries. She just experimented with this last night, and I couldn’t wait to try it.”

“Oh, I always have room for Auntie Siham’s cooking, baking, anything!”

When they finished their cake and were chatting easily, Nadia asked, “How should we begin this? I mean, do you want to tape the conversation, take notes …?”

Reema, who had not brought anything with her except her purse, shook her head slowly. “Actually, Nadia, I wasn’t honest with you on the phone.” She paused.

“OK?”

“We’re like sisters, right?”

“Of course!”

“Well, sisters are different than friends.” Reema took a sip of her water. She’d rehearsed this little opening speech last night carefully. “Because sisters are obligated to tell each other when they are doing something that is hurtful or detrimental. Friends would probably do the same thing, but it’s not obligatory …”

“Reema? What’s going on?” Nadia leaned forward, off the couch, planting both feet on the floor.

“George may be getting married.”

“Was Siham home?” Mama asked when she stopped home for dinner that night. She spoke in Arabic, as she had done since Reema was a little girl. Now all their conversations were in Arabic. Reema conversed in it comfortably, switching between it and English as easily as changing her shirt or her shoes.

“No, I didn’t see her. Only Nadia was there.” She walked over to the stove and, at her mother’s instructive nod, stirred the onions that simmered in the oil. Her mother was cooking majaddarah, one of the simplest meals, really—it only consisted of rice and lentils, but it was one of Reema’s favorites. Actually, everything Mama made was delicious, and she secretly felt that her mother was a superior cook to the other mothers.

“Not too long, Reema. They’ll turn black very quickly.”