Based on the author’s own family history, this is a story about family and belonging, the child of a Jewish mother and a South Asian father hears stories about her family history. Sometimes she doesn’t feel Jewish enough or South Asian enough, but comes to realize you can feel — and be — many things at once. The girl’s mother tells her stories about her mother, a Jewish seamstress in Brooklyn, New York. She lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment and sewed wedding dresses shimmering in satin and lace. Her father tells stories of his mother, the girl’s other grandmother, who liked to cook bubbling dal on a coal stove in Pakistan. They tell stories about how both sides came to America, and how, eventually, her parents met on a warm summer evening in Poughkeepsie. The girl sometimes feels as if she’s the “only one like me.” One day, when she spots a butterfly in her yard, she realizes it’s okay to be different — no two butterflies are alike, after all.
