I look at him now, at his plump cheeks. Smooth face—he shaved his mustache a week after we married, upon my request, though he still joked that it would return one day. His thick, black hair, which he’s never had to color once, even though he’s approaching thirty-nine. He’s proud of that. A bit relieved, too, because his father and brothers had all been gray at this stage.

I try to be sufficiently Arab, but just American enough for him. It’s easy, because small things make him happy. My repeated attempts to fry chicken without burning it. The “A’s” I bring home from my ESL classes at the community center. The fact that I’ve taken to Bruce Springstein (which really was not as tough as I’d made it seem) and listen to Hanan’s tapes.

I used to think it would be just as effortless with Hanan.

“I want our children to know their culture. I don’t want them to have to find it, like I did,” Michel had said. Thus, our firstborn child was given an Arabic name. In first grade, she announced that she hated it.

“Why couldn’t I be Laura? Or Miranda?” she asked over dinner one night. “All the kids laugh at my name and the teachers never say it right.” It was a logical and practical complaint, but Michel and I agreed in bed that night that we had done the right thing. That this would blow over soon, because it was only her first year in school. Our second child was supposed to have been a boy. We had the name “Kareem” picked out, but we lost him at seven months and never tried again. Since then, Hanan has been my life, despite her reluctance.

Michel leans over me now and kisses my cheek. “I have to run to work, albi,” he says. “But don’t think about Hanan. We knew we’d have problems like this, but it’ll pass.”

“You think?” I don’t want him to leave yet, want to hear his reassurance.

“I went through the same thing she’s dealing with now.” As if he’s read my mind, he hugs me tightly. “She’ll get over it.” He pours the extra tea in his insulated travel cup and walks out.