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“Come, come”, she says to me as I enter the cramped apartment and breathe in the spicy, yet comfortingly sweet scent of what I would come to know was qabli pulao. Before my eyes adjust to the light, I am presented with an intricately painted cup filled with steaming hot green tea. Six pairs of eyes meet mine as I thank my host for having me. A small boy dressed in a Spiderman costume and a hockey mask grabs my hand and leads me to a small cushion on the floor between a woman breastfeeding and a silver tray of geometric snacks. Children’s shrieks and giggles mingle with the soft Farsi that fills the air. Apart from the children, everyone in the apartment is female. Apart from me, everyone in the room is Afghani. I regrettably am not a Farsi speaker and find myself in the familiar position of relying on the universal nature of English and mime to facilitate communication. At one point the Farsi stops and the staring begins. We are all smiling, wondering who will take that first leap into communication. I’ve just come from my apartment where I drove my car following signs I could read, laughing aloud to a podcast in English. We are in America. We are 20 minutes from my Denver apartment. I’ve almost forgotten. The woman next to me points to her baby, swaddled in a red and white embroidered blanket, then points to me and says, “You, baby?” I immediately shake my head and wag my finger, “No, no, no”, I say, overcome with my natural aversion to facing that question as a 30-something woman. Once my face relaxes from its contorted state, I see the confused looks on the faces of my female companions. Upon further inspection of those confused expressions, I note that I am likely the oldest woman in the room at the age of 31. And the only one without a child. How do I begin to explain my reasons for not yet (or ever) having children while using basic subject + verb sentences? I can barely explain it with access to hundreds of thousands of English words and combinations. On the fly, I go with my gut and throw my palms up, shrug my shoulders, and say, “I don’t know.” This may be the most honest answer I’ve ever given to the question of children. Possibly in an attempt to bring some clarity, Badriya, our host, places her youngest child in my lap. All the ladies coo and pout and murmur in Farsi at the sight of me and a child. I join in the oo-ing and aw-ing until, as if in unison, we are giggling, content, and sipping tea. As the assigned Guest of Honor, Spiderboy serves me first. He hands me a heaping plate of goat and rice filled with raisins and carrots. I am met with the same glances of anticipation as when asked about children. I grab my fork, scoop the perfect amounts of goat and rice, and take a bite. “So good”, I say while rubbing my stomach. And it truly was. Badriya is beaming and I thank her again. As I prepare a second bite, I see that no one else has received a plate. I ask, “Are you eating?” I am met with six waging fingers and a cacophony of “No, no, no”. “Oh, please eat!” I cry, the desperation rising in my voice. “No, no, no.” “Why not?” The ladies look at each other, grumble in Farsi, and then smirk. In unison, they throw up their palms, shrug their shoulders, and say, “I don’t know!” We all laugh at our common confusion over babies, food, tradition, and life in general. As we eat the delicious qabli pulao together, it doesn’t matter what country we are in or what language we speak. With food and femininity to bind us, we begin exploring the boundaries of difference.