For a minute, I contemplate shoving my pillow over my head and drowning out the sound. Maybe I can fake my death.

Except then I hear them yelling Anam’s name, too.

I grudgingly climb out of bed, checking the calendar as I go. It’s a Friday, which means as soon as I make it through today, I’ll have the weekend to finally sleep and block out the world.

I close my eyes, willing myself to remember that for the next few hours. It’ll be over soon.

By the time I come downstairs, dressed for school, my parents are sitting at the dining table, and Anam is huffing in the kitchen doorway.

“What happened?” I ask her, reaching forward to tie her hair back with the tie on my wrist. “Are you okay?”

“I was trying to make you a birthday breakfast, and Baba lost his mind because I put a paratha in the toaster oven instead of frying it. I know you like them more crispy, which is why I—”

“Oh, of course, make us look like some kind of big bad villain,” Ma snaps. There are dark circles under her eyes, not unlike my own. It seems her migraines are keeping her up. “You’re going to neglect to tell your sister that smoke was coming out of the toaster oven?”

Anam makes a low growling noise, and I wrap my fingers around her wrist to keep her from acting without thinking. “Well, it’s not like you were going to do anything for her birthday.”

Baba blows out a breath. “You two are acting absurd. This is not some kind of war that we have to constantly fight. You’re sixteen and eighteen, and yet you act like toddlers. You know we just want what’s best for you.”

My sister scoffs. “What did you get Apu for her birthday, then?”

A long silence follows. My head is buzzing faintly with white noise, but I tune it out. “It’s fine, we’ll make breakfast together some other time,” I say, pressing a kiss to Anam’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Anam grimaces but wraps me in a tight hug. “Happy birthday.”

I give her a weak smile and grab a banana off the table. Baba used to pack us a breakfast when he was leaving for work, but in the last few months, he’s neglected to do it, as some kind of misplaced punishment. I can’t help but recall when he said cooking for us brought him more joy than anything in the world. I guess things change.

Anam takes off her apron, heading up the stairs to grab her book bag, squeezing my arm as she goes.

I’m sifting through the closet when my mom appears in the corner of my vision. “What?” I ask, without stopping my search.