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"Understood." Mrs. Flynn met my gaze, and the intensity of her stare had me dropping mine for a moment as well. Somewhere in the back of my memories, I remembered eye contact, or lack thereof, was a cultural difference between the U.S. and Middle Eastern traditions. I couldn't recall it clearly enough to modify my actions appropriately.

Sam stayed quiet, but helped herself to a biscuit. Her mom seemed to settle when she did that, and repeated her question.

"How's work, Sami? Are you enjoying the steadier position?"

"For the most part." Sam nibbled the cookie, and out of sheer inability to figure out how to navigate the awkward situation, I did the same. The crunchy, nutty confection brought a stroke of delight to my mouth and I took a bigger bite the second time.

"Good." Mrs. Flynn stroked Sam's hair a few times and then gave her hand a squeeze. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Not really." Sam met her mother's gaze in a sharp turn of events. "Rosie is more than my friend."

"I know, Sami." Mrs. Flynn’s slender lips curved into a small smile. To me, it seemed genuine.

"The minute Farid walks in here, he'd smack that grin off your face and you'd let him." Sam sat up straighter in her chair. "And if it were up to him, I wouldn't exist at all."

"Samirah..." Mrs. Flynn's posture shifted to mirror Sam's. "There are some battles worth waging, and some not. He is an old, stubborn man who is stuck in his ways."

"You make excuses for him." Sam's rage made it to the surface and the quiet, subdued, worried woman who walked in wasn't the one who's eyes widened with her passion. "Always for him, and not for me."

I stood from my seat, and made my way around the table to stand closer to her. I didn't touch her first, but she automatically wrapped her arm around my middle and pulled me to lean against her.

"Samirah," began Mrs. Flynn, but she tore off into a language I didn't understand. Sam's grip on my hip tightened and she spat back at her mother. The two of them exchanged heat in, what I assumed to be Arabic, that nearly blew the hair from my shoulders. Despite the harsh tones, Mrs. Flynn's posture remained calm and reasonable, but Sam grew more upset.

"Speak English in front of my girlfriend," she shouted, finally, slamming her hand down on the table so hard that the dishes rattled.

"All right." Mrs. Flynn held her hands up in front of her. "Calm yourself, Samirah. There's no need to shout."

"There is." Sam dropped her head against my stomach and I wrapped my arms around her. "We're going to go now. This was a mistake."

"If you insist. But I'd like if you stayed," said Mrs. Flynn, glancing between us. "I'm fixing maqloubeh for supper. I know you like that."

"Sam." I leaned down to whisper to her. "Let's take a walk for a minute."

Again, to my surprise, she agreed and rose to stand with me. Her mother let us go and I headed toward the front door. A sharp grab on my wrist jolted me backward and Sam pulled me into a hug before I made to reach for the door handle, despite the fact neither of us had shoes on yet.

"Not outside."

"Okay. Okay." I turned around in her arms and cupped her face. "Samirah, take a breath with me."

"This was a mistake. I can't breathe here." Her words sounded more panicked than she looked and she stroked my arms from wrist to elbow. "We need to go."

"We can go, but I want you to breathe with me for a minute. Look at me, please," I implored. She met my gaze and the sheer terror in her eyes told me how difficult this situation was for her. Did she feel like this every time she came here?

Voices carried from the kitchen and the back door to the condo closed. Mrs. Flynn began speaking to someone, again in Arabic, and Sam released me, stepping back right away. She pulled the covering over my hair, then did the same for herself.

"Farid," was all she could say. Her fear melted to a sort of resignation, and that expression, sullen and withdrawn, I remembered.

My mind flashed to the time a few weeks ago when she returned home, thinking I slept on the sofa, and watched her chuck her scarf in the closet. The empty, vacant stare that told me of her pain and brought the fractured parts of herself to the surface.

She led me back inside, now standing further away from me than before but always a protective step in front, as we returned to the table. Two men, the older one with a gray mustache and wrinkled brow, spoke animatedly to Mrs. Flynn. Occasionally, I understood him saying Rima, but nothing else. The other man, younger, maybe in his forties, helped himself to some of the biscuits on the table. Neither of them acknowledged us when we returned to the table at first. I assumed the older man to be Farid, but I wasn't introduced to the other. Sam kept her gaze averted, and her lips pursed while we returned to our seats, though this time I sat beside her.

Their chatter calmed down, the younger man smiled at both of us and offered a small wave. "Hey. I'm Wally. Samirah's cousin."

"Rose," I said, glancing to Sam. She didn't seem too unnerved by Wally addressing us.

"Hi, Sami," he said, attempting to engage her. He lowered himself down on the table in an obnoxious attempt to get her to look at him. Eventually she did and it made her smirk. "Grumpy face. Eat a cookie."

His playfulness had me watching the exchange between the two of them. He continued to try and make her talk to him, and dropped down to sit across from us at the table. Farid ignored us, and spoke only to Mrs. Flynn.