“She says she doesn’t love him anymore—she just fell out of love. I can’t believe she’s doing this to him—and to her son.”

The fingers of my mother’s left hand clenched in a tight fist, then relaxed, clenched and released again. I knew she was furious because Nadia was treating marriage so casually, and especially since her marrying Kevin had originally sparked such a commotion in the family.

“It’s because she’s the youngest,” my mother continued. “Your grandparents spoiled her the way they never spoiled the rest of us—whatever she wanted, she got it. They never wanted to upset her.

“She was sick, too, when she was young. Always had chest colds and high fevers—she stayed in bed for a whole month one time because your grandfather didn’t have enough money to let her stay at the hospital. It was during the war and the beds were filled with people who were getting amputations and recovering from shrapnel and gunshot wounds. He was a doctor, so he treated her at home as well as he could. Your Siti didn’t sleep at all that month—she kept checking Nadia’s temperature, boiling sage and chamomile with honey, making cold compresses for her head and warm ones for her belly. And she grew up that way, knowing that your grandmother and everyone would do what she wanted.”

She was quiet for a few seconds and then both fists clenched and slammed down on the pillow, which muffled their impact.

“Damn her!”

She left, went to bed, but I stayed by the window, sorting out this new information.

I knew that my mother was hurting, but when her hurt spilled over into anger, it was my signal that she was thinking about my father. Unavoidable parallels between Nadia’s marriage and her own stolen one were probably burrowing steadily into her mind. After a few minutes had passed quietly, I smoothed the two dents in the pillow with my palm, closed the window, and went to bed.

Nadia the Elder did not come to our house for six weeks, but my mother had tense phone conversations with her. She sat at the kitchen table, a full cup of coffee, long grown cold, before her, her mouth pressed close to the receiver, and she spoke in low, terse Arabic. Sometimes, I could hear her voice rise and once I heard her say, “If our mother was alive, she’d never let you do this!” That particular conversation ended shortly thereafter, but my mother stayed at the table, staring down at the pine wood surface, tracing invisible circles with her thumb.

I told George what was going on—said that I wanted to hang out at home more often in case my mother needed me. He smiled and held me for a long time, as if to send his strength to me that way, and he reminded me about the skiing trip that weekend. “I forgot—oh, George, I probably shouldn’t.”

“We promised Hanan and John we’d go with them. Besides, a couple days in the Poconos will help you forget these troubles.”