It surprises me, this ease with which they talk about sex. Ameena and I talk about it plenty, but I’ve never quite gained that comfort with my mother. Maybe it’s because I discovered grief and sex at the same time. My earliest experiences are wrapped in that tightest of blankets, warped by sadness. I didn’t know how to have either conversation with her.

“So what happened?” Diana asks. “You can trust us with the NSFW version.”

“There’s no NSFW version.” I try to sound nonchalant. “We were just . . . incompatible.”

“I know all about that. Every guy in my early twenties. So much awkward fumbling.” She reaches out and clasps her husband Eric’s chin. “Fortunately, you were willing to learn.”

“Are we really having this conversation in front of our kids?” he says. Admittedly, they’re not paying attention, bickering about who spotted the afikomen first.

“I mean, have you met me?” Diana bats her lashes at him. He chuckles and shakes his head.

Truthfully, I’d love to be able to have conversations like that with Diana. But the one time we tried to meet up for lunch, one of her kids was sick and she couldn’t find a sitter, and we never rescheduled. Or maybe I’m completely inept at making adult friends.

“Tell us about the wedding,” says James, Phil’s youngest son, a chemistry grad student. “What do you have planned so far? How can we help?”

I’m grateful for the subject change. Now that it’s mid-April, July 14 no longer seems that far away.

“It’ll be small,” Phil says. “Not like your cousin Hassana’s wedding in Ibadan.”

Anthony slaps the table and bursts into laughter. “Remember the groom’s arrival in a helicopter? And the runaway peacock?”

Diana joins in. “I swear that peacock was out for blood.”

My mother laughs at this, too, and I’m not sure if she’s heard the story from Phil or just wants to feel like she’s part of this. Of course it’s natural for Phil’s family to have a history of shared experiences. But this is when it hits me that my family is no longer my mother and me and the occasional appearance from Ameena and TJ. We will never have in this room what we used to have, and in some ways that’s a good thing. I’ve sat through too many lonely, quiet dinners, counted down the minutes until I could escape.

I didn’t appreciate those dinners that sometimes felt haunted by my father’s ghost. I’m convinced of that now. Talking about him was hard, but not talking was worse. So often, I’m trapped between the pain of remembering and the fear of forgetting.

* * *

—

Dinner winds down slowly, and it’s nearing nine thirty when young kids are taken home to be tucked into bed. I can’t recall a Passover with my mother lasting past eight o’clock.

I help her in the kitchen, though Phil tells us he has it covered and tries to shoo us. He’s a good one, he really is, and I’m happy that my mother is happy. I wish it were easier for me to accept this change as a wholly positive one, instead of lamenting what I’m losing. Which of course makes me feel like a selfish piece of garbage. Guess it wouldn’t be a holiday without a healthy dose of self-loathing.

Finally, Phil gets my mother to agree to take a break. She retreats to the living room with a book about music, leaving Phil and me alone in the kitchen. There is definitely a lot more dishwashing involved with a family this big.

“You wash, I’ll dry?” he says, and we work in silence for a few minutes.

I run a sponge along the antique serving dish that belonged to my grandmother. “This was—really nice,” I say, stumbling over my words.

“We were happy to be part of it.” More silent scrubbing and drying, and then: “Your dad loved radio, yes?”

“Yeah. He did.”

“He’d be so proud of you.” Ever so gently, Phil dries the serving dish, treating it with the same kind of respect my mother has for so many years. “I’m not trying to take his place. You know that, right?”

“I know you’re not an evil stepfather. You don’t have to worry about that.”

He grins. “Perhaps not, but it’s still an adjustment. You can’t be used to”—he gestures to the dining room—“all of that madness yet.”

I give a sheepish shrug. “Not really,” I say before we plunge back into semi-quiet, the only sounds are the running water and the classical music my mother is playing in the next room. Brahms. Classical has never been my favorite, maybe because the lack of words forces me to stay in my own mind instead of listening to what’s inside someone else’s. Still, growing up with it ensured I knew my way around it.

I could be content with this. I could continue giving him superficial responses, or I could make a concrete attempt to get to know my future stepfather. Because regardless of what I do or don’t say, it’s happening. A few months from now, this man who’s shown my mother and me nothing but kindness will be an even more permanent fixture.

Maybe there will always be a ghost in this house, but it doesn’t mean that I need to disappear, too.

“You mentioned during dinner that there’s a new conductor at the symphony?”

“Alejandro Monta?o,” Phil says with utmost reverence. “A living legend. He’s a little quirky, to put it lightly, but he’s damn brilliant.”