Aliyah and Reema were there, both wearing the black and white bridesmaid dresses I’d picked out. Nadia was not there, but that was expected. And Baba was there, of course. I’d known he would come through for me. Even during the terrible weeks and months before the ceremony, when Mama’s yelling drove me out of their house and into John’s apartment, Baba would smile at me in the darkest moments, a quick, soft smile behind Mama’s retreating back as she thumped up the steps. Even while doors slammed and Mama screeched, “You are always making trouble, ya Hanan!”—even then, I did not doubt Baba would escort me down the aisle and kiss my cheek when we reached the altar.

He did just that—and then he turned to John and shook his hand firmly. “You are my son now.” That sent Aliyah and Reema into a flash of tears. Me too, although I blinked valiantly to fight them because of my expensive makeup job.

After the priest, old and wrinkled Father Anthony, declared us husband and wife, John and I flew down the aisle—past Baba’s smiling face, past Reema’s and Aliyah’s joyful weeping, and past the clapping of our fifty guests—back to the marbled foyer of the church.

“Hey Mrs.,” John said, pulling me into his arms.

I giggled excitedly. “This is so fantastic—it’s perfect.”

“Yeah?” He looked down, searchingly, into my face. “Even without your mom here?”

“It’s perfect,” I repeated clearly, emphatically, so that neither of us would forget that I meant it.

The house John and I bought was in University City, on 38th Street, nestled behind the University of Pennsylvania campus. It was an older town house that cost much more than we could afford, but John’s parents had made the down payment as a wedding gift. Three floors high, it had polished hardwood floors, curved banisters, cathedral-style windows, and a stone balcony overlooking the back of the house.

Our home, the one with the dark red front door, had a small backyard with thick green grass that John said I’ll love until I had to mow it in the summertime. I’d never mown grass before, but I doubted I’d mind. It had to be better than sweeping off the cement block that served as the backyard of my parents’ row house pushing the debris and stepped-on cockroaches into the back alley. I hated that backyard, ever since I was a little kid.