“What do you do when you’re not working?” he asks Khadije.
“I watch DVDs and cook.” Khadije says.
“You cook for whom?”
“My cousins. I cook for everybody. They don’t do anything. I have to do all the cooking,” Khadije says again with a rich accent.
I listen to them talk for a few more minutes. They too left their countries. They too wanted the American dream. Maybe not Hollywood and fame, but a full-time job and a guarantee to freedom.
“My life is in my country,” I hear Khadije say.
I feel bad for her. I want to tell her, I know what you mean. Although I built a life here at an early age, I still feel that I understand her, that I feel the pain in her voice.
Sometimes we have to give up the things we love, the things we think are permanent. We have to make sacrifices. We have to be strong. Khadije, just like many other immigrants here, will eventually get used to her new life. She won’t forget what she lost, but she will know that it was for the best. She will know that it was worth it. She will know.