“Through the community,” she said. Years ago I’d drifted away from the community, which consisted of Syrians, Lebanese, and Palestinians living in the D.C. area. When I moved back to D.C. after a year in Italy post-college, I’d taken part in weekends of pregaming at posh lounges followed by bass-pumping, douchebag-frequented clubs, an activity I would’ve gladly traded for, say, cleaning toilets. “He’s from a very good family.”

Anna silently observed this interaction. I could tell she felt left out; my mother had taken no interest in her, hadn’t asked her a single question. She was selectively observant—a female roommate’s background was of no consequence. In a misguided attempt to ease the tension and make Anna feel included, I decided to broach the topic of our relationship. I started with a hypothetical. It was a risky one, but at the restaurant that night, I felt safe with my mother. “How would you feel if I married a woman?” I asked. It was too much—I could’ve started with “dated”—but for some reason I chose to go extreme.

My mother dragged a slice from the plate in the center of the table and placed it onto her own. “I would be very upset,” she said, avoiding eye contact. She took a bite and chewed it slowly, her breaths getting louder and deeper, her eyes blinking faster. Her instincts were onto us. I was becoming increasingly nervous—I knew all the signs. “Why?” she asked. She looked directly at Anna before turning back to me. “Are you planning on it?”

I panicked. “I was just wondering—”

“Because if you are, then stay away,” she threatened. “Stay away from me and the rest of my family.” In her mind, her lineage didn’t trickle down to me.

Her breaths now sounded like crashing waves. She began to twitch. I tried to backtrack. “I’m not saying I’m going to.”

“You know what …” She stood up, pushing the table forward, knocking over a glass and soaking the kitschy checkered tablecloth with red wine. “Do whatever you want.”

Anna immediately grabbed napkins and started mopping up the wine. The people seated beside us looked over, then scooted in the opposite direction before turning back to their conversation. I gave them an apologetic look.

My mother ran out of the restaurant, forgetting her coat. I grabbed it before pulling on my own. “Can you get the bill?” I asked Anna. “I’ll pay you back.”

She nodded. “Just go.”