On our first night in the house, our wedding night, we made love on a quilt on the bedroom floor. The king-size bed we’d ordered hadn’t come in yet, and no other room in the house seemed right enough. Afterwards I stayed awake, rubbing gently at the discomfort in my belly, where the skin was already becoming taut. I was thinking how good it felt to lie in John’s arms, my head nestled in the triangle of his shoulder, arm, and chest—a soft, fleshy spot that became a pillow for my cheek. It felt nice to know that I didn’t have to rush home to my parents’ house, where, whenever my car pulled up in front, the curtains of the front window would slightly waver, and I knew Mama had been waiting there. After I had moved in temporarily with Aliyah, she would call me loyally whenever I slept at John’s. “Your mom’s been calling all night,” she’d say. And I’d race to the apartment early, before dawn, and pull on my pajamas because, sure enough, Mama would be there by 7:00 A.M. to surprise me.

“What are you talking about, Mama?” I asked once, sleepily rubbing my eyes. I had sped home, maneuvering through the snow that had fallen the night before. “Of course I’ve been here all night.”

“Then why did Aliyah said she doesn’t know where you are when I call?” She faced me like a war general, her hands in fists on her hips, her handbag slinging from her forearm, her eyes—even without kohl—still fierce and black.

“I came home when Aliyah was asleep, and she didn’t know I was there when you called and woke her up.” I moved into the kitchen, and Mama followed me closely, like a predator thinking her prey would take flight and escape. “Right, Aliyah?”

Poor Aliyah stood by the kitchen table, wiping it off so she could lay down her notebook and write. “Yes, Auntie,” she lied smoothly, though I didn’t miss the sharp look she threw in my direction. “I didn’t know Hanan was home.”

There was a slight pause, and I knew my mother realized I had won. There was no way she would ever accuse Aliyah, her friend’s daughter, of lying, and because of that, I could relax. “Coffee, anyone?” I asked, pulling a coffee filter from the stack in the cupboard. “I’ll make a pot.”

“I’ll have a cup,” Aliyah murmured, sharpening her pencils over the wastebasket.

“American coffee?” Mama asked, opening the freezer door. “I thought I—yes, here it is,” she said. She pulled out a bag of Arabic ground coffee and switching to Arabic, added, “You girls forget everything when you live away from your families.”