He greets the man behind the counter in Arabic. I only know a few words in Arabic—like marhaba (“hello”) and shukran (“thank you”) and inshallah (“God willing,” but when Dad says it, he usually means “I hope”). It seems like there should be a rule that if you are 50 percent of something, you should have to know at least 50 words.

“Yussef,” Dad says. “This is my daughter, Cora. Cora, meet Yussef.” Dad smiles and puts his arm around me, squeezing my shoulder. “I come here a lot for lunch.”

“You do?” I ask.

“It’s near campus.”

And I guess it is. It’s so strange to think of my dad getting lunch by himself. It’s like you know your parents have lives outside of when you see them, but it’s still totally bizarre to think about it.

Dad makes one of his nerdy finger-pointing motions and I relax a little. I might not feel fully comfortable in my Middle Eastern–ness, but I feel very secure in my nerdiness. “Yussef’s got the best shawarma in town.” He turns to the counter to order. “Two sandwiches, please. And extra tahini sauce for me.”

“Me too,” I say, but only because Dad said it.

Yussef rings us up, and we take a seat in one of the booths.

“So,” Dad says slowly. He runs his tongue over his top lip, which is one of his nervous tells.

“What is it?” I say.

“Straight shooter, I like that.” It only takes Dad a minute to realize what he’s said before he winces. Before Mabel’s death, I never thought about how many everyday American phrases have to do with guns or shooting. They are so common in fact that even Dad, someone who didn’t grow up here, has picked them up.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay.”

Our food arrives and Dad eagerly starts eating his sandwich. I stare at mine. “What were you going to say before?” I ask.

“Oh,” Dad says. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

“Um. Grams mentioned that . . .” He looks down at his sandwich. My dad is great at talking about cell growth, but when it comes to talking about uncomfortable personal family things, he tends to get a little bit lost.

“Grams, well, she told me . . .” Dad tries again.

I take a small sip of my Coke. The can sweats in my hand. “She told you I’ve been hanging out with Quinn again.”

“Yes,” he said.

We look at each other for a moment.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you take Mabel and me to places like this more?”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Like Middle Eastern restaurants. And Middle Eastern places.”

He laughs and my face heats up. I sink into the comfy cushion of the booth.

“Middle Eastern places? You wish I’d taken you to eat more shawarma sandwiches?”

“Not exactly. But yes. I wish you’d taught me how to be Middle Eastern.” What I don’t say is: I wish you’d also taught Mabel. I wish she’d gotten the chance before she died.