The salmon hit the ice hard. Adewale's phone was ringing in his apron pocket, but his hands were full of fish. The tourist with the camera wanted to see him throw it again.
"One more time," she said. "My husband missed the shot."
He threw the salmon. Twenty pounds of pink flesh sailed over the counter. Marcus caught it behind him, slapped it on the scale. The crowd applauded. This was what they came for. The flying fish. The show.
His phone kept ringing.
"Forty-two fifty," Marcus said to the tourist.
Adewale wiped his hands on his apron, the phone still going. The smell of fish was in everything. His skin, his clothes. Rebecca said she didn't mind it anymore, but he knew she did. Everyone minded eventually.
He stepped behind the ice bins and answered.
"Adewale." His mother's voice came through clear, like she was standing next to him instead of calling from Lagos. "I am at the airport."
"Which airport?"
"Seattle airport. Your airport."
He looked at Marcus, who was wrapping the salmon in white paper. The market noise seemed to get louder. Someone dropped a crate of crab.
"Mama, you're here? In Seattle?"
"Yes. I told you I was coming."
"You said you were thinking about it."
"And I thought, and now I am here. Terminal S. There are so many white people, Adewale. So many."
He closed his eyes. Rebecca was supposed to come to his apartment tonight. They were going to cook dinner, watch a movie. Normal things.
"I'm working, Mama. I get off at six."
"I will wait."
"Take a taxi. I'll pay when—"
"I will wait for my son."
The line went dead. He stood there holding the phone. The market moved around him like water around a stone. Marcus looked over.
"You okay?"
"My mother's here."
"From Nigeria?"
"Yeah."
"She staying long?"
Adewale didn't answer. He didn't know. His mother did things when she was ready, left when she was done. Time meant something different to her.
He went back to the fish. Coho, king, sockeye. The names felt strange in his mouth even after four years. In Lagos, the fish had different names. Different colors. His father had sold them from a wooden stall near the water, croaker and tilapia and mackerel dark as oil.
At three o'clock he called Rebecca.
"Hey," she said. He could hear the espresso machine behind her. "Busy day?"
"My mother's here."
"What?"
"She's at the airport. She flew in from Lagos."
Silence. Then: "You didn't tell me she was coming."
"I didn't know."
"How do you not know your mother is flying across the world?"
"She mentioned it last month. Maybe. I thought she was just talking."
"Jesus, Ade."
He hated when she shortened his name like that, like she was angry at even the sound of it.
"I have to pick her up after work."
"So no dinner?"
"She'll want to see the apartment. To cook."
"I could help. I could meet her."
His stomach tightened. "Maybe not tonight."
"Why?"
"She's tired. The flight is long."
"Ade."
"Tomorrow. You can meet her tomorrow."
Another silence. He watched Marcus negotiating with a customer over a whole chinook. The fish's eye stared at nothing.
"Fine," Rebecca said. "Tomorrow."
"I'm sorry."
"No, it's fine. It's your mother."
But it wasn't fine. He knew the tone. They'd been together two years, and he knew all her tones. The disappointed one. The trying-to-understand one. The one that meant they'd talk about this later, when she'd thought about it more.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
She hung up. He went back to the fish. Threw them when the tourists asked. Smiled for their pictures. At five-thirty, Marcus told him to go.
"Family first," he said.
Adewale took off his apron, washed his hands three times with the special soap that was supposed to cut the smell. It never worked completely. He drove his Honda south on I-5, the traffic thick and slow. The rain started near downtown.
He found her at baggage claim, sitting on three enormous suitcases. She looked smaller than he remembered, her wrapper bright against the gray airport chairs. When she saw him, she stood.
"Adewale."
"Mama."
She touched his face, both hands on his cheeks like she was making sure he was real. Her hands were warm, dry. They smelled like shea butter.
"You're thin," she said.
"I'm the same."
"Thin. And you smell like fish."
"I work at the fish market."
"Still? After all this education?"
"Mama."
She looked at him, and he saw his father in her eyes. That same directness. That same disappointment held back.
"Help me with these bags."
They loaded the suitcases into his car. She'd brought food, he could tell. The bags were heavy with it. Dried fish, probably. Garri. Things she thought he couldn't get here, though the African store on Rainier sold most of it.
In the car, she looked out at the rain, the evergreens, the gray of everything.
"It's cold," she said.
"It's October."
"In Lagos, it's hot."
"I know, Mama."
She turned to look at him. "Do you? How long since you've been home?"
"This is home."
"That apartment you describe? One bedroom, no proper kitchen?"
"It has a kitchen."
"A stove with two burners is not a kitchen."
They drove in silence through downtown. She watched the buildings pass, the people walking fast under umbrellas. At a red light, she said, "There's a girl."
His hands tightened on the wheel. "What?"
"Folashade. From church. She's an accountant now. Very pretty. Not too modern."
"Mama."
"What? I'm just talking. Can't I talk about a nice Nigerian girl?"
"I'm seeing someone."
She looked at him sharply. "Who?"
"Her name is Rebecca."
"Rebecca." She said it like she was tasting something unfamiliar. "American?"
"Yes."
"White?"
"Yes."
She turned back to the window. "I see."
They didn't speak the rest of the way to Capitol Hill. His apartment was on the third floor of an old building. No elevator. They carried the suitcases up one at a time, both of them breathing hard by the end.
Inside, she looked around his small space. The futon he'd bought from Craigslist. The coffee table Rebecca had helped him pick out. The photos on the wall—him and Rebecca at Discovery Park, at the market, at her son Trevor's soccer game.
His mother stopped at that one. "She has a child?"
"A son. He's fifteen."
"And the father?"
"Divorced."
She made a sound in her throat. Moved to the kitchen, opened his refrigerator. Half a pizza. Beer. A container of something Rebecca had made last week.
"We're going shopping," she said.
"Mama, you just got here. You should rest."
"Rest is for the dead."
They went to Safeway. She filled the cart with things he never bought. Okra. Plantains. A whole chicken. At the meat counter, she argued with the butcher about how to cut it. Her English got worse when she was frustrated, mixing with Yoruba. The butcher, a young guy with gauges in his ears, looked at Adewale helplessly.
"She wants it in twelve pieces," Adewale translated.
"Twelve? How do you get twelve pieces from a chicken?"
His mother launched into an explanation, using her hands to show where to cut. Other customers were staring. Adewale felt heat rise in his neck.
"Just cut it however," he told the butcher. "It's fine."
His mother looked at him. "It's not fine. You cook it wrong if it's cut wrong."
"Nobody cares, Mama."
"I care. Your father would care."
"Baba's dead."
The words came out harder than he meant. She went quiet. The butcher cut the chicken into twelve uneven pieces.
Back at the apartment, she cooked. The smell filled the small space—palm oil and peppers and memory. She made jollof rice, dodo, the chicken in a sauce that turned everything red. She moved around his tiny kitchen like she'd been cooking there for years.
"Sit," she said when it was ready.
They ate at his small table. The food tasted like home—the home he said wasn't home anymore. She watched him eat, nodding when he took seconds.
"You don't cook this for yourself?"
"Sometimes."
"Lies. You eat pizza. American food."
"I work late."
"This Rebecca. She cooks?"
"Yes."
"Nigerian food?"
"She's learning."
Another sound in her throat. She got up, went to one of her suitcases. Pulled out a photo album he recognized.
"I brought pictures."
She sat next to him, opened the album. His father at the fish stall. His sisters at their weddings. Cousins he barely remembered. Each photo came with a story. Who had married who. Who had children. Who had died.
"Your cousin Kemi," she said, pointing to a woman in a blue wrapper. "Four children now. All boys."
"Good for her."
"She asks about you. They all do. 'When is Adewale coming home? When is he getting married? When will we dance at his wedding?'"
"Mama."
"What do I tell them?"
"Tell them I'm working."
"For four years? That's all? Working?"
He stood, took his plate to the sink. "I should set up your bed."
"I'm not finished."
"I have to work tomorrow. Early."
She closed the album. "This Rebecca. I'll meet her?"
"If you want."
"You don't want me to meet her."
"That's not true."
"Then why didn't you tell her I was coming?"
"I didn't know you were coming."
"You knew I might come. But you didn't tell her." She stood, came to stand beside him at the sink. "You're ashamed."
"Of what?"
"Of me. Of her. Of something."
"I'm not ashamed."
"Then bring her tomorrow. Let me cook for her."
He dried his hands on a towel that Rebecca had left here. It smelled like her laundry detergent. Like her apartment. Like another life.
"Okay," he said. "Tomorrow."
His mother nodded. "Good. Now show me how your shower works. These American showers, they're all different."
He showed her the bathroom, set up the futon for himself, gave her his bed. She said goodnight in Yoruba, the way she used to when he was young. He answered the same way. The words felt rusty.
He lay on the futon, texting Rebecca.
"Can you come for dinner tomorrow?"
"Your mom wants to meet me?"
"Yes."
"You want me to meet her?"
He stared at the screen. Want was complicated. Want was his mother understanding his life here. Want was Rebecca understanding where he came from. Want was these two worlds touching without breaking.
"Yes," he typed.
"What time?"
"Seven."
"Should I bring anything?"
"Just yourself."
"Ade. Should I bring wine? Flowers? What does she like?"
"Don't bring anything. Just come."
"You're being weird."
"I'm tired."
"Okay. Seven. I love you."
"Love you too."
He put the phone down. From his bedroom, he could hear his mother praying in Yoruba. The same prayers she'd said every night when he was growing up. Prayers for protection, for guidance, for her children to find their paths. He wondered what she prayed for him now. What path she saw him on.
The next morning, she was up before him, making tea in his kitchen. She'd found his coffee maker but ignored it.
"You have no proper tea," she said.
"There's Lipton in the cabinet."
"That's not tea."
She'd made eggs, too. And fried plantains for breakfast. He ate quickly, needing to get to the market.
"What will you do today?" he asked.
"Walk. See this Seattle. Find a church."
"There's one on Pine Street. Baptist."
"I'll find a proper church."
He didn't ask what that meant. Kissed her forehead and left.
At the market, Marcus asked about his mother.
"She good?"
"She's here for a visit."
"How long?"
"Don't know."
"That's tough, man. My mother-in-law stayed with us for three weeks once. Nearly got divorced."
Adewale threw a fish harder than necessary. It hit the ice with a crack.
Rebecca texted at lunch. "What should I wear?"
"Anything."
"That's not helpful."
"Just be yourself."
"That's even less helpful."
He didn't know what to tell her. His mother would judge whatever she wore. Too revealing. Too conservative. Too American. Too trying-not-to-be-American.
"Wear what you wore last Tuesday," he typed. She'd worn a blue dress that day. Simple. Not too short.
"The dress? That's specific. Why?"
"You looked nice."
"I look nice in other things."
"Please, Becca."
"Fine. Blue dress. Seven o'clock. This better go well."
It wouldn't go well. He knew this. But maybe it would go well enough.
He got home at six to find his mother had rearranged his entire apartment. The futon was against a different wall. The coffee table moved. His photos reordered.
"The energy was wrong," she said. "Now it flows better."
She was cooking again. Fish stew. Egusi soup. Enough food for ten people.
"It's just three of us, Mama."
"She might want to take some home. For her son."
"You remembered she has a son."
"I remember everything." She looked at him. "Change your clothes. You smell."
He showered, put on the shirt Rebecca had bought him for his birthday. His mother had laid out a different shirt on his bed. One she'd brought from Lagos. Traditional. He left it there.
Rebecca arrived right at seven. He heard her on the stairs, recognized her footsteps. His stomach clenched.
She'd worn the blue dress. Her hair was pulled back. She carried flowers anyway—sunflowers from the market.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
They stood in the doorway. Behind him, his mother called out something in Yoruba.
"She says come in," he translated, though that wasn't exactly what she'd said.
Rebecca stepped inside. His mother came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. The two women looked at each other.
"Mama, this is Rebecca. Rebecca, my mother."
"Mrs. Adebayo," Rebecca said, extending her hand.
His mother took it briefly. "You can call me Mama."
"Oh. Okay. Mama."
It sounded wrong in Rebecca's mouth. Too careful. Too American.
"These are for you," Rebecca said, holding out the flowers.
His mother took them. "Pretty. Adewale, find a vase."
He didn't have a vase. He found a large glass, filled it with water. The flowers looked wrong in it, too tall, leaning.
"Sit," his mother said to Rebecca. "We eat soon."
Rebecca sat at the table. His mother went back to the kitchen. He stood between them, not sure where to go.
"Can I help?" Rebecca asked.
"No," his mother said. "Guest don't cook."
"I'd like to help. To learn."
His mother looked at her. "You want to learn Nigerian cooking?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Rebecca glanced at Adewale. "Because it's important to Ade. Because it's part of who he is."
"Hmm." His mother handed her a knife. "You can cut onions."
They worked together in the small kitchen. His mother showed Rebecca how to cut the onions the right way—"Not so thick, not so thin." Rebecca's eyes watered from the fumes. His mother gave her a piece of bread to hold in her mouth.
"It helps," she said.
"Really?"
"No. But it makes you look silly, so you forget about crying."
Rebecca laughed. Actually laughed. His mother almost smiled.
They served the food. Fish stew over rice. Fried plantains. Egusi soup thick with spinach and ground melon seeds. Rebecca tried everything, even the parts Adewale could see her struggling with.
"It's delicious," she said.
"You're lying," his mother said.
"No, really. It's just different. Richer than what I'm used to."
"American food has no flavor."
"Some of it does."
"Like what?"
Rebecca thought. "Barbecue. Southern food. Soul food, really."
"That's not American food. That's our food. African food, changed."
Rebecca looked at Adewale. He focused on his plate.
"You're right," Rebecca said. "I hadn't thought about it that way."
His mother served more food onto Rebecca's plate. "Eat. You're too thin. How can you give my son children if you're so thin?"
Rebecca's face went red. "Mama," Adewale said.
"What? It's a question."
"We haven't discussed children," Rebecca said carefully.
"You've been together two years, and you don't discuss children?"
"We discuss a lot of things."
"But not the important things."
The room went quiet. They could hear the neighbors' TV through the wall. A game show. Applause.
"I have a son," Rebecca said. "Trevor. He's fifteen."
"Adewale told me. Where is his father?"
"California. We divorced three years ago."
"Why?"
"Mama," Adewale said again.
"It's okay," Rebecca said. "He had an affair. Several, actually."
His mother made that sound in her throat. "Men are weak."
"Some men."
They looked at each other. Something passed between them that Adewale couldn't read.
"Your son," his mother said. "He's a good boy?"
"He's trying to be. It's hard. The divorce. His dad being gone."
"You raise him alone?"
"Mostly. Ade helps."
His mother looked at him. "You didn't tell me this."
"Tell you what?"
"That you're raising another man's child."
"I'm not—" He stopped. Rebecca was looking at him.
"You're not what?" Rebecca asked.
"It's not like that."
"What's it like then?"
He felt trapped between their eyes. "I help sometimes. It's not the same as raising him."
"No," Rebecca said quietly. "It's not."
His mother stood, began clearing plates. Rebecca stood to help.
"Sit," his mother said. "I'll do it."
"Please. Let me help."
They cleared together. Adewale sat at the table, useless. He could hear them in the kitchen, not talking, just moving around each other. Water running. Dishes clinking.
When they came back, his mother brought tea. Nigerian tea she'd brought with her. It was too strong for Rebecca, he could tell, but she drank it.
"Tell me about your work," his mother said to Rebecca.
"I'm a barista. I make coffee."
"Is that a career?"
"For now."
"And later?"
"I don't know. I'm taking classes. Business management."
"To manage coffee?"
"To manage something."
His mother nodded. "It's good to have plans."
"Ade's helping me study."
"Is he?"
"He's good at math. Better than me."
"He was always good at math. Should have been an engineer."
"He could still be an engineer."
"Could he?"
They both looked at him.
"I like my job," he said.
"Throwing fish?" his mother asked.
"It's honest work."
"So is engineering."
Rebecca's phone buzzed. She looked at it, frowned.
"Everything okay?" Adewale asked.
"It's Trevor. He's asking if I'm coming home soon."
"You should go," his mother said.
"I should stay and help clean up."
"No. Your son needs you. Go."
Rebecca looked uncertain. She stood, smoothed her dress. "Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful."
"You ate almost nothing."
"I ate plenty."
"Next time, you'll eat more."
Next time. Adewale heard it like a promise or a threat.
He walked Rebecca to the door. On the landing, away from his mother, she turned to him.
"That was intense."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. She's interesting. Not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone quieter, maybe."
"She's never been quiet."
Rebecca touched his face. "You look like her. Around the eyes."
"I look like my father."
"You didn't talk much about him."
"He's dead."
"I know. But you could still talk about him."
He didn't know how to explain that in his family, they didn't talk about the dead. They carried them, but quietly.
"I should go," she said.
"Okay."
"Will I see you tomorrow?"
"I don't know. With my mother here..."
"Right." She kissed him quickly. "Good night, Ade."
He watched her go down the stairs. Her car starting. The taillights disappearing.
Inside, his mother was washing dishes.
"I told you I'd do those," he said.
"Words are easy."
He picked up a towel, started drying. They worked without talking. The dishes were done too soon.
"She's not what I expected," his mother said finally.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone harder. American women are hard."
"She's been through a lot."
"Yes. You can see it." She handed him the last pot. "Her son. You care for him?"
"He's a good kid."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know what you asked."
She turned off the water, faced him. "You can't replace his father."
"I'm not trying to."
"Then what are you doing?"
He didn't answer. He didn't know what he was doing. Trevor liked him. They played video games sometimes. Threw a football in the park. Was that raising him? Was that being a father?
"You know Folashade—"
"Mama, stop."
"She's a good girl. Nigerian. No children. No ex-husband."
"I love Rebecca."
"Love." She said it like it was a fish he'd thrown that hadn't landed right. "Your father and I didn't love each other when we married."
"I know."
"But we built something. A family. A life."
"In Lagos."
"Yes, in Lagos. Our home."
"This is my home."
She looked around his small apartment. His American furniture. His American life.
"Is it?" she asked.
The next day was Saturday. He didn't work weekends anymore—Marcus had hired a weekend crew. His mother wanted to see the city.
They walked down to the market. She stood watching the fish fly, shaking her head.
"This is entertainment?"
"Tourists like it."
"And you? You like it?"
He thought about it. The weight of the fish in his hands. The arc through air. The applause.
"It's just work," he said.
They walked to the waterfront. The ferries were coming and going. She watched them, the water, the mountains in the distance when the clouds cleared.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"Yes."
"But cold."
"You get used to it."
"Do you?"
They had lunch at a Vietnamese place. She complained the soup was too salty but ate it all. After, they walked through the International District. She stopped at every African store, talking to the owners in Yoruba or broken English. Everyone knew someone who knew someone back home. The world was smaller than it seemed.
That evening, Rebecca texted. "Trevor wants to meet your mom. Is that weird?"
He showed the text to his mother.
"The boy wants to meet me?"
"Apparently."
"Bring them for dinner tomorrow."
"Both of them?"
"Am I speaking Chinese?"
Sunday, Rebecca and Trevor arrived together. Trevor was tall for fifteen, awkward in his body. He shook Adewale's mother's hand formally.
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Adebayo."
"Call me Mama," she said, and somehow it sounded right when Trevor said it.
She'd made American food—her version of it. Fried chicken that was nothing like KFC. Mac and cheese with too much pepper. Green beans cooked until they were soft.
"This is great," Trevor said, eating everything.
"You have good appetite," she said approvingly. "Growing boy."
"I'm always hungry."
"Good. I always cook too much."
After dinner, she showed Trevor the photo album. He asked questions about Nigeria, about the market in Lagos, about the fish.
"Different fish there," she said. "Stronger taste. Here, everything tastes like water."
"Mom says you're only visiting," Trevor said.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
She looked at Adewale. "Until I'm finished visiting."
"That's cool. Not knowing, I mean. Just staying until you're ready to go."
"You think so?"
"Yeah. Freedom, you know?"
"Hmm. You think I'm free?"
Trevor considered this. "Aren't you?"
She laughed. Actually laughed. "No one has asked me that in a long time."
They stayed late. Trevor helped wash dishes, his mother directing him like he'd been washing dishes in her kitchen his whole life. Rebecca and Adewale sat at the table, watching them.
"She likes him," Rebecca said quietly.
"Yes."
"More than she likes me."
"That's not true."
"It's okay. I get it. He's easier. Less complicated."
"We're all complicated."
She took his hand under the table. "What happens when she leaves?"
"Things go back to normal."
"What's normal?"
He didn't answer. He wasn't sure what normal was anymore.
A week passed. His mother found a church—Ethiopian, not Nigerian, but close enough. She made friends with the women there. They invited her to coffee, to lunch, to Bible study. She came home with stories, with phone numbers, with invitations to dinner.
"You could have community here," she told Adewale.
"I have community."
"Where? The fish market?"
"I have friends."
"Rebecca."
"She's more than a friend."
"Yes. But what else? Who else?"
He didn't answer. She was right. He'd kept himself separate. From the other Nigerians, from the Africans, from anyone who might remind him of what he'd left.
"There's a wedding," she said. "Saturday. At the church. They invited us."
"I don't know them."
"So? They know you're my son. That's enough."
"Mama."
"We're going."
Saturday, he wore the traditional shirt she'd brought. It felt strange on his body, too loose, too bright. She wore her best wrapper, her gold jewelry. They looked like they were going to a wedding in Lagos, not Seattle.
The church was full of Africans. Ethiopian, Nigerian, Kenyan, Ghanaian. The service was in three languages. The music was drums and voices. His mother sang along, swaying. He stood beside her, silent.
At the reception, she introduced him to everyone. "My son, from the fish market." They all knew Pike Place. They'd all been tourists there once.
A Nigerian woman named Grace sat next to him during dinner.
"Your mother talks about you constantly," she said.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She's proud. You're working. You're surviving."
"Surviving isn't enough for her."
"It's never enough for mothers." Grace had three kids, she told him. All born here. "They're American," she said. "They don't understand Nigeria. But they're also not American. You know?"
"I know."
"It's hard. Raising them between worlds."
"I don't have kids."
"Your mother says there's a woman. With a son."
"Rebecca. Yes."
"American?"
"Yes."
"That's hard too."
"Everything's hard."
She laughed. "You sound like my husband. 'Everything's hard, Grace. Why did we come here?'"
"Why did you?"
"Same as you, probably. Opportunity. Education. The dream of something better."
"Is it better?"
"Different. Different can be better."
The music started. Traditional music. People began dancing. His mother appeared, pulling him up.
"Dance with your mother."
"Mama, no."
"Yes. Show these people you remember who you are."
He danced. His body remembered the movements even if his mind resisted. His mother smiled, really smiled, for the first time since she'd arrived.
"You see?" she said. "It's still in you."
After, hot and embarrassed, he went outside. Called Rebecca.
"How's the wedding?" she asked.
"Loud."
"Are you having fun?"
"I'm not sure fun is the right word."
"Your mom's happy though?"
"Yes."
"That's good."
"Is it?"
"Ade, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know."
"Talk to me."
But he couldn't. How could he explain the pull of the music, the faces that looked like his, the feeling of being home and not home at the same time?
"I should go back in," he said.
"Okay. I love you."
"Love you too."
Inside, his mother was dancing with an older Nigerian man. They were laughing. She looked young. Happy. Free, like Trevor had said.
The man introduced himself as Joseph. He owned a restaurant in Rainier Valley.
"You should come," he told Adewale. "Real Nigerian food."
"I'll try."
"Your mother says you throw fish."
"I work at Pike Place, yes."
"Hmm. Interesting job for an educated man."
"It's honest work."
"Of course. All work is honest. But is it enough?"
Adewale excused himself. In the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror. The traditional shirt. His American face. Neither one thing nor the other.
When they got home, his mother was quiet.
"Joseph seems nice," Adewale said.
"He's a widow. His wife died two years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"He asked for my number."
"Did you give it to him?"
"I'm a married woman."
"Baba's been gone three years."
"Death doesn't end marriage."
"Doesn't it?"
She looked at him sharply. "You think I should forget your father?"
"I think you should be happy."
"Happy." She said it like Rebecca said his shortened name. "Americans always talking about happy."
She went to bed without saying goodnight.
The next morning, she was packed.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Going home."
"Your ticket is for next week."
"I changed it."
"Why?"
"It's time."
"Because of last night? Because of what I said?"
"Because you need to figure out your life. And you can't do it with me here."
"That's not true."
"Adewale." She sat on the suitcase to close it. "You love this woman?"
"Yes."
"And her son?"
"Yes."
"Then be with them. Fully. Not halfway."
"I am with them."
"No. You're with them but looking back at Nigeria. At me. At what you think I want."
"Don't you want—"
"I want you to be happy." She said the word like it didn't taste so bad anymore. "Even if it's here. Even if it's with her."
"Really?"
"I don't have to understand it. It's not my life."
He drove her to the airport. At the curb, she hugged him long and hard.
"Come home sometime," she said. "Visit. Bring them if you want."
"Rebecca and Trevor?"
"If they're your family, they're my family."
"Mama."
"What? You think I'm so traditional? So closed-minded?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." She touched his face again, like she had when she'd arrived. "You're my son. That doesn't change. Nothing changes that."
She pulled her suitcases into the airport. He sat in the car, watching her go. His phone rang. Rebecca.
"Is she gone?"
"Just now."
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know."
"Come over. Trevor's at his dad's. We can talk."
"Okay."
He drove to her apartment in Fremont. Smaller than his, but warmer somehow. Plants everywhere. Photos on every surface. A life fully lived in.
She made coffee. They sat on her couch.
"I liked her," Rebecca said.
"She liked you too."
"No, she didn't."
"She did. In her way."
"Her way is complicated."
"Yes."
"Like your way."
He looked at her. "What does that mean?"
"You hold back. Even after two years, you hold things back."
"I don't mean to."
"I know. But you do." She put her cup down. "Your mom asked me something. When you were in the bathroom at that dinner. She asked if I was prepared."
"For what?"
"For you. For what it means to be with someone who has one foot in another world."
"What did you say?"
"I said I was trying."
"And what did she say?"
"She said trying wasn't enough. That I had to decide. That we both did."
He was quiet. Outside, it was raining again. It was always raining.
"Trevor really liked her," Rebecca said.
"She liked him too."
"He wants to know when she's coming back."
"I don't know. Maybe never."
"That makes him sad."
"Me too."
Rebecca moved closer to him. "We could visit her."
"In Lagos?"
"Why not? Trevor's never been to Africa. Neither have I."
"It's not easy. The travel, the city. It's nothing like here."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
"Then show me. Show us."
He thought about it. Rebecca and Trevor in Lagos. In the market where his father had sold fish. In the house where he'd grown up. His two worlds colliding.
"Maybe," he said.
"Maybe is a start."
She kissed him. He kissed her back. They went to her bedroom, made love in the afternoon light. After, lying there, she said, "I want to learn to cook Nigerian food. Really learn. Not just to impress your mother."
"Why?"
"Because it's part of you. And I want all of you. Not just the parts you think I can handle."
"It's not that simple."
"I know. But we can try."
"You said trying wasn't enough."
"I was wrong. Sometimes trying is everything."
He pulled her close. Thought about his mother on the plane. About Joseph with his restaurant. About Trevor asking when Mama was coming back. About the fish flying through air at the market tomorrow.
"Okay," he said. "We'll try."
Monday, he was back at the market. Marcus asked about his mother.
"She went home."
"Already?"
"Yeah."
"You good?"
"I'm good."
The tourists came. He threw fish. They took pictures. At lunch, he called Joseph's restaurant.
"I'd like to make a reservation."
"For when?"
"Tonight. Three people."
"I'll tell Joseph. He'll be pleased."
That evening, he picked up Rebecca and Trevor. Drove to Rainier Valley. The restaurant was small, crowded with Africans.
Joseph greeted them himself. "Your mother called. Said you might come."
"She called you?"
"This morning. From Lagos." He smiled. "She gave me her number after all."
They ate real Nigerian food. Joseph sat with them, explaining each dish to Trevor, who wanted to try everything. Rebecca took notes on her phone.
"I want to learn to make this," she told Joseph.
"Come back. I'll teach you."
"Really?"
"Of course. Family of Adewale is family to me."
Family. The word sat between them like another dish on the table.
After dinner, walking to the car, Trevor said, "That was cool. Different from Mama's cooking, but good."
"You miss her," Adewale said.
"Yeah. Don't you?"
"Yes."
"Maybe we could FaceTime her. My dad does that when he remembers."
"Maybe."
In the car, Rebecca took his hand. "That was nice. Joseph's nice."
"He likes my mother."
"Good for her."
"She won't do anything about it."
"You don't know that."
"I know her."
"People surprise you. Even mothers. Maybe especially mothers."
At Rebecca's apartment, they all went up. Trevor disappeared into his room. Rebecca made tea—the Nigerian tea his mother had left.
"Too strong," she said, making a face.
"Add milk."
"Sacrilege."
"My mother adds milk."
"Really?"
"Sometimes. When no one's looking."
They sat on her couch. The rain had stopped. The city was quiet.
"Move in," she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Move in with us. Your lease is up soon, right?"
"Next month."
"So move in."
"Trevor—"
"Wants you to. We talked about it."
"You talked about me moving in?"
"Is that so strange? We've been together two years."
"It's fast."
"It's not fast. It's actually kind of slow."
He thought about his empty apartment. His mother's absence already filling it. The photos she'd rearranged. The smell of her cooking fading.
"I need to think about it."
"Okay. Think."
She didn't push. That was one of the things he loved about her. She knew when to push and when to wait.
Trevor came out of his room. "Mom, can Ade help me with my math?"
"Ask him."
"Ade?"
"Yeah, sure."
They sat at the kitchen table with Trevor's homework. Algebra. Easy stuff, but Trevor struggled with it. Adewale walked him through the problems, patient, clear.
"You're good at this," Trevor said.
"It's just math."
"No, teaching. You're good at teaching."
"Your mom says the same thing."
"You should do it. Teach, I mean."
"Maybe."
"You say maybe a lot."
"Do I?"
"Yeah. Like you're afraid to decide things."
Out of the mouths of babes.
"You're right," Adewale said.
"So stop saying maybe."
"Okay."
"So will you move in?"
"Your mom told you to ask?"
"No. I wanted to know."
Adewale looked at this boy. This American boy who called his mother Mama. Who ate Nigerian food with his hands. Who wanted him to stay.
"Yes," he said. "I'll move in."
Trevor smiled. "Cool. Can you help me with science too?"
Later, walking home, Adewale called his mother. It was morning in Lagos.
"You're calling," she said. "Something's wrong?"
"No. Something's right."
"Tell me."
"I'm moving in with Rebecca and Trevor."
Silence. Then: "Good."
"Really?"
"Adewale, you think I came all that way just to cook and criticize?"
"Didn't you?"
"I came to see. To understand. And I saw."
"What did you see?"
"A woman who loves you. A boy who needs you. A life you're building."
"It's not the life you wanted for me."
"No. But it's the life you want for yourself. That matters more."
"Does it?"
"I'm learning that it does." A pause. "Joseph called."
"He told me."
"He wants to visit Lagos."
"Will you let him?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"That's good, Mama."
"We'll see. How's the fish?"
"Still flying."
"Hmm. Maybe that's enough. For now."
"For now," he agreed.
After they hung up, he walked through Capitol Hill. The streets were wet from the rain. The coffee shops were closing. The city was settling into night.
He thought about his mother in Lagos, maybe saying yes to Joseph. About Rebecca and Trevor waiting for him to come home—their home now. About the fish he'd throw tomorrow, the weight of them in his hands, the momentary flight.
It wasn't the life he'd planned. But it was the life he had. The life he was choosing.
His phone buzzed. Rebecca. "You okay? You've been walking a long time."
"I'm good. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Everything. Nothing. Coming home."
"Good. Trevor wants to show you something. A video about Nigeria he found."
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
"We'll be waiting."
He walked faster. Toward Rebecca's apartment. Toward Trevor's questions. Toward the life that was waiting for him. The rain started again, gentle this time. He didn't mind it anymore. It was just weather. Just Seattle. Just home.
At the apartment, the lights were on. He could see them through the window—Rebecca and Trevor at the table, Trevor's laptop open between them. They were laughing at something on the screen.
He climbed the stairs. Used the key Rebecca had given him months ago but he rarely used. Opened the door to the sound of their voices, the warmth of the small space, the feeling of arrival.
"Ade!" Trevor called. "Come look at this. It's a video of a Nigerian wedding. The dancing is insane."
He went to look. On the screen, people were dancing to highlife music. The same kind of dancing from the wedding his mother had taken him to. Trevor was trying to copy the movements, ridiculous and earnest.
"Like this?" he asked.
"No," Adewale said. "Like this."
He showed him. Rebecca joined in. They danced in the small kitchen, badly, laughing. The neighbors below probably hated them. It didn't matter.
Later, after Trevor had gone to bed, Adewale and Rebecca sat on the couch.
"He wants to go to Nigeria," she said. "For real. Maybe next summer."
"That's expensive."
"We'll save. It's important."
"Why?"
"Because it's part of you. And you're part of us now."
"I've been part of you."
"No. You've been with us. There's a difference."
She was right. There was a difference.
"My mother wants to meet you properly," he said. "In Lagos. In her world."
"I want that too."
"It won't be easy."
"Nothing about us has been easy."
"No."
"But it's been worth it."
"Yes."
They sat quietly. The rain continued. The city hummed around them. Somewhere, his mother was starting her day. Somewhere, fish were swimming that would end up in his hands tomorrow. Somewhere, lives were being built and rebuilt.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"No, I mean—" He stopped. Started again. "In Yoruba, we say 'mo nifẹ rẹ.' It means I love you, but also more. It means I choose you. I continue to choose you."
"Mo nifẹ rẹ," she repeated, badly but with feeling.
"Close enough."
"Teach me to say it right."
"Tomorrow."
"And the next day?"
"That too."
She leaned against him. They listened to Trevor's music through his door. American music. Hip-hop and beats and words Adewale didn't always understand. But Trevor was singing along, happy, home.
"We're going to be okay," Rebecca said. Not a question.
"Yes," he said. Not maybe. Not probably. "Yes."
And for the first time since his mother had left, since she'd arrived, since he'd come to Seattle, he believed it. They were going to be okay. Different than planned, complicated, stretched between worlds. But okay.
The fish would fly tomorrow. He would throw them high and true. People would applaud. And then he would come home, to this apartment that would soon be his apartment too, to this woman who was learning his language, to this boy who called his mother Mama.
It was enough. More than enough.
It was everything.