New York City is no place for a little girl," Mom says. "I don't think Amara is ready to visit." She takes plates from the cabinet, getting ready for the dinner Dad is cooking.

I am sitting at the kitchen island, reading, sort of ... I have been on the same page for the past fifteen minutes because instead of reading I am listening to Mom and Dad's conversation.

I am irritated for a couple of reasons. One, because the "little girl" she is referring to is me — except I am not a little girl. Exactly two weeks and one day from today, I will be twelve years old. And besides, it's not like there aren't hundreds, actually thousands — maybe even hundreds of thousands — of kids who live in New York City. I asked if I could go for my birthday, to visit Dad's family, and it set off this long "discussion."

Mom says, "Kids who are born and raised in New York City is one thing. Kids from Oregon visiting is another." She keeps listing reasons why letting me visit New York is a bad idea. She says to Dad, "We don't even let Amara walk to school alone. How is she going to navigate a big city? Amara doesn't know anything about a place like New York. She's lived in the suburbs her whole life."

As if Dad doesn't know where I was born, where I live.

We live in Beaverton, Oregon, just a thirty-minute drive from Portland. Less than that if Dad is driving. Mom always says she loves Beaverton over Portland because no matter where you are, a park is just a short walk away. There are hiking trails and bike paths tucked throughout the city. When it's not too rainy, the three of us ride our bikes and explore new routes on weekends. I like living here. It's the only place I've ever called home. But I want to see other places. Go somewhere with more people, with more things to do.

I try to catch Dad's eyes. See if he will speak up for me and convince Mom to let me go to New York. But he is focused on cooking. He opens the sliding door and steps outside on the patio to check the food he's grilling. He grills even when it's cold outside. He says the covered deck is why he bought this house. I think it's his favorite place to be.

I watch him take the salmon off the grill, put the fillets on a plate, and squeeze lemon on each piece. As soon as he comes back inside, I try again. "Mom, you act like Dad isn't going to be there with me. It's not like I'd be going by myself," I remind her. "Plus, I'll finally get to meet my cousins and spend time with Aunt Tracey —"

"Sweetheart, you're not going. Okay?" She puts the plates in front of me and looks at Dad like she is trying to get him to back her up.

Dad puts another dirty dish into the sink. I know Mom will fuss about that later. Dad is the best cook ever, but he uses just about every bowl, plate, knife, spoon, and fork in the kitchen by the time the meal is prepared. He cooks a big family meal once a month because most of the time he is traveling for his job or too busy to come home early enough for dinner. And tomorrow morning Dad is leaving for LA, which means Mom and I will be eating takeout for the next few days.

Mom eyes all the dirty dishes in the sink. "Babe, you're going to have to wash those. You can't leave this mess for Hannah to clean."

"Don't we pay Hannah to clean the house?" Dad asks.

Mom lets out a sigh, and I know this means she has had enough with both me and Dad. I get up and take the plates over to set the table, the one in the kitchen. We mostly eat in here instead of the formal dining room. We only eat there on Thanksgiving or when guests are joining us. Right now, it's an extension of Mom's workroom. Her sketches, along with fashion magazines and swatches of fabric, are spread across the table. Mom designs dresses and sells them at her boutique in downtown Portland's Pearl District. It's called Amara's Closet, which I know sounds amazing to most people — especially my friends — I mean, none of them have a whole clothing line and store named after them, but since there's nothing in that boutique I'd actually wear, it's not that big a deal to me.

I'd much rather wear the clothes Dad gets for me. He's the vice president of sports marketing at Nike and oversees branding and special events like the annual All-Star basketball games and the launching of new shoes. Sometimes, Dad brings me shoes that aren't even in stores yet. But mostly, I just rotate my Air Jordan Retro collection. I have one through twelve, but my favorite is the AJ4. I get those every time they come out.

As Dad takes the pan of roasted potatoes out of the oven and brings it to the table, Mom says, "I just don't want her going to New York yet."

Here's another thing that's irritating about this conversation. Mom is talking about me like I'm not in the kitchen. Like she didn't just walk past me — her actual daughter — who can hear everything she's saying.

"Maybe when she's older," she says.

I clear my throat, "Like twelve?" I ask. "You've been asking what I want for my birthday — well, this is what I want. A trip to New York. Dad is going for the All-Star Game. Why can't I go with him?"

"He's going for work, Amara," Mom says.

Before I can object, Dad gives me a look telling me to let it go. He sprinkles a little salt into the bowl of broccoli and says, "Dinner's ready." We sit at the table, and Dad prays over the food. "We thank you, God, not only for this food, but for this family. Bless us, and keep us, and please —"

"Let me go to New York with Dad to meet Dad's side of the family," I blurt out.

Dad opens one eye, Mom opens both. We all say, "Amen."

Dad passes the plate of salmon first, then the potatoes, then the broccoli. I reach for the basket of homemade dinner rolls and pass it. I swallow my first bite and take a deep breath just as Mom says, "We're not going to talk about this all night, Amara."

How did she know I was going to say something else? I put down my fork. "Can I just say one more thing?" I ask.

Both Mom and Dad answer at the same time, Dad saying yes, Mom saying no. Mom gives in. "Go ahead."

"I just want to meet the family I've only seen in pictures," I say. "And you both keep saying that once the baby comes Dad won't be traveling as much, so I think I should go now."

At the mention of the baby, Mom touches her belly. Dad and Mom give each other a look.

I knew I'd get them with that. Bringing up the new addition to our family always gets them. Just about every other sentence out of their mouths begins with, "Well, you know, once the baby comes we're not going to be able to ..." and usually what they're not going to be able to do is something I love to do, so I'm thinking this little baby is already messing up my life and she is not even born yet.

Mom says, "Amara, the answer is no. You are not going to New York for your birthday, so you need to come up with something else you want to do." She drinks from her glass of water and then says, "And you can stop asking, okay?" She rubs her belly again, and I wonder about the little life inside her.

I haven't told anyone this, but I don't want Mom and Dad to have another baby. I feel bad for admitting it, especially after all the babies Mom was pregnant with and then lost. When I was younger, I really, really wanted a little brother or sister, but after so many times of wishing and hoping only to have no little brother or sister, I just stopped wanting...