“Because it is,” Dr. Randall says.

“But how can you say that? How do you know? Because you know what I know? I know that any space can be safe until it isn’t anymore.” My voice cracks a little.

I stare down at my shoes. They’re my black sneakers that Mabel never approved of. I wear these sneakers all the time now because when I wear them, I can hear her teasing me about them. Sometimes at night I try on her shoes. Her strappy sandals and leather ballet flats. The shoes she never would’ve let me borrow if she were still alive.

“You know what? You’re right, Cora. I meant that this is a safe space for you to explore your emotions. But I understand given the trauma you’ve experienced how it will be difficult for you to view any place as a safe space,” Dr. Randall says.

I look up at him. He meets my gaze. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Cora?”

I don’t really, but it seems rude not to nod. I’m not used to admitting that I don’t understand things.

He taps his fingers slowly against the arm of his leather chair. “It’s okay for you to not feel okay. You know that, right?”

My throat is still tight. “It doesn’t feel like it is.”

“Well, it is.”

“I just want to be okay. I don’t want to feel okay. I want to be okay.”

He gives me a soft smile. “I know. And guess what? Allowing yourself to be not okay sometimes is that big first step to actually being okay.” His smile widens. “Being okay with not being okay is a very important and difficult emotional maturity to reach. Lots of adults don’t even have it.”

Right then, he looks up at the clock. Our session is over. He stands up and I do the same. “I’ll see you next week.”

Grams and Dad are waiting for me in the hallway. They stand on either side of me, each one draping an arm around my shoulder. For the shortest of moments, I feel safe. Like I still live in a world where I can believe that nothing bad happens.

“Dinner?” Dad asks.

I nod and discreetly try to wipe away the leftover tears from my eyes. Dad, unlike Dr. Randall, takes my tears personally.

We walk next door to the Chinese restaurant. We sit at our usual table by the window. Dad lets me get a large soda. I fill it up to the top with Coke.

“How was your session?” Dad asks as he forks a large portion of lo mein onto his plate.

“Saeed,” Grams says gently. “You know Cora doesn’t have to tell us that.”

It’s funny to me how Grams parents my dad even though he isn’t her son. In lots of way the whole situation is a little different, how she stayed with us even after Mom left. I asked her about it once and she waved me off saying that she was lucky that Dad let her stick around. It’s harder to ask Dad about it because he gets really awkward whenever I bring up Mom. Once, though, he told me that in a way being an immigrant feels a lot like being an orphan, and with that logic, Grams is his American mother and he’ll always feel grateful for that.