“It’s OK, Nadia habibti.”

“I was so busy the last few weeks, I guess it slipped my mind.”

I kissed her on the cheek, and she patted my face, then returned quietly to her embroidery.

I resumed my dishwashing, letting the hot water soak and wrinkle my fingertips. Malfoof had been Baba’s favorite meal as well, and it had been the last meal she’d made for him before he died. It was so long ago, but she still marked the anniversary of his death by making that meal.

I wish I’d known my father better than I had. I have only scattered memories—his mustached smile; the slim, gold crucifix he wore around his neck, nestled in the black hairs that curled up on his chest; the mole behind his neck that I used to look at when he gave me rides on his back; the neatly trimmed hairline behind his ears; the slam of the door and the burst of sound, because his habit was to start talking about his day the minute he walked into the apartment, whether or not he saw my mother in front of him. He just assumed she would be there, standing by the stove or playing with me, ready to listen, waiting for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

The hot water became almost scalding, and I quickly pulled my hands out of the stream. Mama had also assumed that he would be there, always coming home at the same time, carrying a treat for me or a little gift for her, always pulling her into his arms and saying, “Your hair smells so good.”

It only lasted a short time, but Mama lived on those memories, and she planned to live on them the rest of her life. Could it be possible to find a love that could sustain you for that long, even after the person you loved was gone? Did that kind of love even exist anymore? I wondered if I would ever find someone like that. “Probably not,” I thought to myself, peering into the living room at Mama, still stitching away, watching but not really listening to the news. Soon she would fall asleep, and I would prod her awake and then she’d tread softly into her room and collapse into her queen-sized bed. And it would be a night like every other night—slow, content, simple.

I finished washing the dishes and put them away, then spent the rest of the evening in the kitchen, reviewing my resume and reading the want ads in the Philadelphia Inquirer.

It was not that night that George arrived in my dream. It was at least two nights later, because it was the same night that I finally landed an internship. Brookes, Inc., had called me in for a second interview and offered me a two-month paid internship, in which I would be assisting one of their ad executives. I would get $3000 a month, and the internship would possibly lead to a job, they told me. “We usually give these internships to people still in school, but we made an exception in this case. The owner thinks you have a lot of promise,” the hiring officer told me as I sat in her office after the interview, filling out the paperwork.