This past July, I bought eggplants at the farmers’ market, intending to make my grandmother’s signature maqlubeh: the cinnamon-and-allspice-scented rice dish layered with fried eggplants and chicken, cooked in a pot, then flipped onto a serving platter, forming a golden dome. Before I had the chance to peel the eggplants, stripe by stripe, and drop them into hot oil, a WhatsApp message came in from my mother—a single, waving-hand emoji at an unusual hour. I knew immediately what it meant. My grandmother Teta Fatmeh, who had been ill for a while, had died. I experienced no tightness in my chest, no burning behind my eyes. Just a hollow stillness and sense of guilt.

Over the next few days, the eggplants sat in my crisper drawer, soft spots spreading across their skin like bruises. Every mor

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