He sat down at our small kitchen table and started spreading peanut butter and jelly on a slice of pita bread. It was the marriage of Arab and American food—like hummus on a hoagie.

“My parents were just thinking that, you know, since we’re having a baby soon … wouldn’t it be better to quit the clothes shop so you can start sooner on your degree?”

“What degree, John? This is the part that baffles me—when did I ever say I was going back to school?”

He tilted his head to the side as he replied, “You did—and I remember this—you did say you were thinking of doing a business degree.”

“Thinking is a key word here.”

“And I want to support your decision—to be the kind of husband who encourages that.”

“But I’m not ready to quit my job yet, John,” I said firmly, using the quiet tone Baba had rarely had to use with me when I did something so wrong that Mama couldn’t handle it. “I really like working at the clothes store—and I’m good at it. It’s not rocket science, but it works for me.”

“I know, but—and my mom made this point—you were once accepted to Penn, for Christ’s sake. Your SAT scores were only slightly lower than mine, and I was forced into all those prep courses while you took it cold.”

“And?” I couldn’t imagine he’d actually had this conversation with his mother.

“There’s a lot of potential, Hanan. That’s all.”

The dinner at his colleague’s had been postponed for another week, but I didn’t mention his mother’s dinner invitation. Instead, I stayed up late in the basement, weaving gold strips through the bottom and sides of a dark brown basket.

Nadia lived in the old neighborhood with her mother. She kept her mom company—they held on to each other like entwined tree branches, twisting and, eventually, sharing one another’s cloud of leaves. Their cloud of leaves was the sadness that had sprouted when Nadia’s father was killed in a car accident.