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Mom stands and brings our plates to the counter. Her thin arms look so delicate in her short-sleeved shirt. Her curls are gathered at the top of her head, out of her face for another full day of work.

“It’s not that I dislike him,” she says, wiping her hands on her jeans. “It’s just when I see Axel, I see everything my parents wanted for me. I’ve spent half my life running away from all of that only for my daughter to be running toward it.”

I walk back into the kitchen and stop so we’re almost toe to toe. “Or maybe you’re just afraid I might find out the truth: that your parents weren’t so bad. That Dad isn’t the villain you paint him to be and that the one person in my life, the one who is supposed to want the best for me, is actually the one getting in the way of me having everything I want.” I pause and wait for her to look up at me, but she doesn’t. “You can get in your own way, but I won’t let you get in mine.”

Mom keeps her eyes down and eventually just says, “I hope you have fun tonight.” She walks past me and opens the door to the basement. Anxiety hums under my skin as Mom heads down the steps to her salon. When music bounces below my feet a moment later—a familiar, sad ballad from Phil Collins—I climb up the stairs to my bedroom and fall to the bed, releasing tears of frustration while lying in fetal position to fend off yet another stomach cramp.

By the time I arrive at Axel’s, I’m starving. I’ve lost track of how many meals have been sacrificed because I was too upset to continue eating after an argument with my mother.

Axel answers the door wearing shorts and a plain white T-shirt. He invites me in and I step inside. His home smells like someone dropped an entire package of allspice on the carpet and rubbed it in. With a couple hundred garlic cloves.

A TV from the family room is seemingly on at full volume, even though no one is sitting in there, while his mother and sisters engage in an intense conversation in the kitchen—intense enough that I can hear them from the foyer. There’s a lot going on in terms of decor. A carved wooden statue of Jesus rests on a console table in the foyer, surrounded by two smaller crucifixesand a few wooden camels. Above it, an elaborate tapestry hangs on the wall. It looks similar to one I remember seeing in my maternal grandparents’ home. Axel’s living room is adorned with photos. Mostly portraits. I walk through, examining the pictures, the happy smiles, the still-intact family.

We enter the kitchen and I ask his mother if she needs any help but she shoos me away. Not rudely, but because I’m a guest and therefore I’m not “allowed to lift a finger.” Axel’s father is out back cleaning up his vegetable garden and his sisters, who are here without their husbands, are now setting the dining room table. It’s all very traditional. Mom would hate it.

“Can I see your room?” I ask Axel once we’re back in the foyer.

He looks past me into the kitchen. “Sure,” he says quietly before basically tiptoeing up the stairs.

When we arrive, he closes the door gently.

“Are you not allowed to have girls in your room?” I tease.

“Of course not, but they won’t say anything. At least while you’re here.”

“Were your sisters allowed to have boys in their rooms?” I ask while taking in the sight of his meticulous bedroom. I wasn’t expecting him to be such a neat freak.

He laughs. “Definitely not.”

I sit on his bed, the sheets so smooth I worry about leaving an imprint of my butt. “Do your parents have a different set of rules for you because you’re a boy?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, sitting next to me. “It’s because I’m the youngest and they’re older and tired.” He grins while elbowing my side. “Helps me get away with more.”

“Like what?” I ask, turning to face him.

“Like having pretty girls in my room.”

My cheeks flush. I suck them in as I get up, inspecting the books on his shelves. “Speaking of, does your mother still make your bed and clean your room for you?”

“No. I do.”

“You’re the reason this room is so sterile?” I ask, looking back at him.

“Yeah. What’s the big deal?” He shrugs.

“My room must have made you cringe,” I say, looking away.

“I don’t judge how other people choose to live. It’s your space. But for me, it’s important to have a clean room. For a couple of reasons.”

I pull out his desk chair and sit like I’m his therapist. “Go on.”

He smiles. “One, if you hadn’t already noticed, my house is kind of chaotic. It’s sensory overload. This is my safe haven to escape all that. Also, I need room to practice my dances. Which means, no clothes on the floor.”

“Fair enough,” I say, both respecting and understanding his answer. Except for me, the chaos I keep buried inside comes out in my room.

“Why did you think my mom was still cleaning my room?” he asks, lifting a brow.

“Becausemymom seems to think Arab sons are treated like kings.”