In Utero Lebanese; Post Birth Indian

People often tell me I am a lot like my father. I look like him, I joke like he did, and I have his tastes. My mother is not always on board with these comparisons, rightly feeling that her stake in my arrival into this world should have more visibility. But my father was thrilled that he had been delivered a practical copy of himself in the form of his daughter.

Which makes the following exchange even more hilarious.

I was busy tucking into a gorgeous hummus and baba ganoush that mom had made, and making very happy eating noises. Lebanese cuisine is by far my favourite, since I grew up on the stuff. My father had also found a bakery that made pillowy soft kaboos and I was in seventh heaven as a result.

We were at the dinner table, and were talking about something. As usual, my father and I started arguing about something, and I won the point. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance at me and:

Dad *to mom*: “Are you sure you picked up the right baby from the hospital? I think some Lebanese woman has our real child.”
Me *snorting with laughter*
Mom *cocking an eyebrow at him* says very dryly: “You must have timed your liaison with the other lady very well, considering this one *points at me* looks exactly like you.”

Slow clap for mum.

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