My parents tend to gaslight her a lot more than me, thinking declarations of “love” will convince her to fix our fraying relationship with them. We love you, we would never hurt you, we’re doing our best, please work with us, all you have to do is hear us out. As if we haven’t listened to them say it a million times over. The words are always empty.

“I’m studying,” Anam says sharply. “The SATs are coming up. I have to get a high score like Apu if I want to get in Stanford.”

“Stanford,” my dad repeats blankly. “In California.”

“Yes, Stanford,” Anam says, lifting her chin, her dark eyes blazing with determination.

I offer her a small smile. I’m immeasurably proud of her, even if my parents aren’t. “I wouldn’t worry too much. I’m sure you’ll get a volleyball scholarship.”

“Volleyball scholarship,” my dad repeats, holding his head in his hands.

“Are you a broken record?” I ask him darkly. “Why are you just repeating everything we say?”

He can be as dismissive of me as he wants, but the second he starts in on Anam, my claws are out. I went through all of this so she wouldn’t have to. I don’t get why nothing we do is enough for them—whether it’s being in film club or being on the volleyball team, our parents insist on seeing it as a “distraction” to our studies. Over and over, they tell us to focus on things that will guarantee us a good future. It doesn’t matter that I’m the co-president of the film club. It doesn’t matter that Anam has won several volleyball championships. None of it fits their definition of success.

My dad stares at me for a long moment before huffing loudly, pushing back his chair and going to the kitchen. He’s grumbling something under his breath, but I don’t care enough to decipher it.

Instead, I squeeze Anam’s fingers once and return my attention to my work.

Ten minutes later, my dad leaves the kitchen, holding a cup of warm chai and a bowl of payesh. He passes by us entirely without a word, and I frown at his back. He usually offers us some, too, but even that is too much to ask these days.

Anam looks similarly bemused so I sigh, getting to my feet and wandering to the kitchen to make us both two cups. I’m not going to risk going near the stove, though, certain I’d set a house fire. The smell of warm payesh wafts past my nose, and I try not to glower at missing out on it.

Fine. If that’s how it’s going to be in this house, then fine.

I’m more than happy to Cold War the shit out of my parents.

It started innocently enough.