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"Some things, not all. Mainly when it comes down to women's rights. My uncle, Farid, married an American woman. She divorced him eventually because he used to beat her, believing that a man was allowed to beat his wife into submission. Earlier in their relationship, she was generally passive and fawned over him. Only when she found her voice did he begin to hurt her." Sam's hands twisted on the wheel and I placed my hand on her forearm. "I still think he wants me dead because he suspects I consider myself non-Muslim."

"Do you, baby?"

She nodded, and glanced at me. "And being gay, I'm sure he wants me dead."

"Sam…" My heart crumbled to pieces on the seat beside her. "What does your mom say about all of this? Does she know?"

"I'm sure she does. She's not going to stand up to him. She might've been an equal partner with my dad, but when he died, Farid looked after her. Like he always did. He got her out of Syria. He saved most of our family by doing whatever he did. So naturally, she just...does what he says."

"So when you visit your mom, and he's there, it's harder for you?"

She nodded and brushed the back of her hand across her forehead as we pulled into the senior living complex on the edge of the city. Well-manicured lawns surrounded the perfectly-paved pathways that led to rows of uniform homes. The first-floor condos all shared the same off-white siding with dark roofs and a parking space in front. Most notably, everything appeared handicapped accessible with no stairs, and all ramps. Sam pulled into one of the empty spaces, and parked the car. She drew in a deep breath and glanced at me.

"We're here together," I reminded her and she nodded. "Am I allowed to touch you?"

"You shouldn't." That did it and tears marred the beauty of her pretty hazel eyes. She blinked them away and a few tumbled from her long lashes. "I'm so ashamed of calling you my friend."

"Samirah." I turned in my seat after releasing the seatbelt. "I understand how hard this is for you. For today, I'm happy to be your friend. It's day one, okay?"

"Yes, my sweet." She stroked my cheek a few times with her thumb. My heart broke for her and the pain she wore outwardly today. Our role reversal also became quite evident when she allowed me to lead for a moment.

We parted, and she covered her hair with the fabric she hated. I followed suit and we exited the car together. Sam grabbed two reusable grocery bags from the back seat and we met each other by the walkway. Despite her instruction to not touch her, her hand remained at the small of my back the entire walk up the path to her mother's house. We entered without knocking, Sam using her key, and she paused in the entryway to slip out of her ankle boots. I watched her and did the same, leaving me in a pair of striped purple socks. She glanced at them, and offered me a small smile. Part of me began to wonder if my affinity for purple socks held a deeper meaning.

"Mom?" called Sam as she led me into the quaint home. The cozy, modern home with subtle earthy tones and sage-colored accents, appeared as standard to me as ever. I wasn't sure what I expected, but it wasn't something so average.

A woman appeared from the kitchen, clad in nearly the same outfit as Sam—jeans and a burgundy sweater—greeting us with a smile. Mrs. Flynn must've been in her mid-sixties, with her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a low, twisted bun. She kissed both of Sam's cheeks when she greeted her, before turning to me. She wasn't wearing hijab or anything traditional as I expected either. So far, nothing turned out as expected.

"This must be Rose. Good to meet you," she said, a bundle of smiles as she double-kissed my cheeks as well.

"Good to meet you, too, Mrs. Flynn," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

Sam didn't linger on pleasantries as she urged the head covering off her hair then glanced at me. I followed suit and she offered me the faintest nod.

"Let me put the groceries away," Sam said, glancing toward the kitchen. "They've been in the car."

"I fixed some tea," answered her mother, waving for us to follow her toward the kitchen. On the dining room table, set with six chairs but only three table settings, a kettle of tea sat in the middle beside a plate stacked tall with what appeared to be golden cookies of some sort.

Mrs. Flynn gestured for me to sit and I did, but Sam brushed past us toward the kitchen. I could see her from the dining table, her eyes never leaving me as she hurriedly filled the cabinets and refrigerator with whatever she purchased. Her mother patted my hand to draw my attention back to her, and I gulped down the nerves that tightened my throat. My expectations had me prepared for something very different. Instead, I faced my usual anxiety of meeting a new person. I glanced at Sam, and the expression she wore, laden with defeat and sadness, tortured me more than anything else.

"How do you take your tea, dear?" asked Mrs. Flynn as she poured out three cups into the pretty cups. The white China mixed with maroon etchings offered a subtle elegance to a simple gesture.

"Just black, please. Thank you," I answered, and she offered me the filled cup.

"Not like my Sami who lumps in her cubes and milk, I see." Mrs. Flynn fixed Sam's tea how she liked it. "Help yourself to a biscuit, Rose."

"Okay… Thank you." I did as she said and glanced to Sam when she returned to the table. Her gaze remained low and focused on her tea when she cupped her hands around it.

Mrs. Flynn watched her, then reached over and brushed a strand of Sam's hair off her shoulder. "I thought you would be brighter today," she said.

"Why?" Sam sipped her tea, and she didn't once look at her mother. The anxiety dripped from her like a thick sap running down the injured bark of an Evergreen.

"If you've brought Rose to meet me, then she must be special to you." Mrs. Flynn leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs at the same time that Sam did. I glanced between them, the mirrored pair knocking my jaw slack for a moment. I covered by sipping my tea.

"She is," offered Sam, then set her cup back down on the saucer. "Is Farid coming over here today?"

"Perhaps. He's unpredictable on his best day. Retirement hasn't served him well. How's work, love?" Mrs. Flynn continued to attempt engagement with Sam, but all it did was serve to force her into more quiet.

"Rosie and I will leave if Farid shows up," she said, her gaze flickering to her mother.