“I was talking to your Chachi, and she recommended this magazine for graduation dresses,” Ma says by way of explanation when I keep staring at her blankly. “Do you want to look through it?”

I frown, trying to suss out if there’s any underlying motivation. Chachi, my paternal aunt, is my favorite relative aside from Dadu, my paternal grandmother, mostly because Chachi and Mishti Auntie from next door are more alike than Ma would ever admit. With that in mind, I decide to give my mom the momentary benefit of the doubt and hold my hand out for the magazine.

Ma passes it over to me, and I start flipping through. Though there are nice outfits in the magazine, my mom has marked the blandest of the bunch. Chachi would probably roll over and die if she saw Ma’s choices. If I were Anam, I’d throw this magazine right back in my mom’s face and march upstairs in a hysterical fit.

At any rate, I don’t have the energy—nor do I care enough—to fight with my mother about what I wear. Graduation is the last time she’ll have a say in my outfits anyway.

“I dog-eared the ones I thought would suit you,” Ma says, reaching across the table to tap an example. “You could also wear it to Baba’s forty-second birthday party—”

“I’m not going to be here for Baba’s forty-second birthday,” I say, without looking up, though the embers of anger are starting to spark in my chest. “It’s in September, so I’ll be at college.”

“Poppy, be serious,” Ma says, shaking her head at me. “You know how foolish—”

“I’ll choose later,” I say, dropping the magazine on the table and grabbing my homework packet. “I’m going to bed.”

“How long are you going to keep running from us?” Ma asks, her voice carrying across the living room as I trek toward the stairs. “You’ll have to talk to us someday.”

I grind my teeth together but don’t bother responding. There’s no point.

I hate that there’s a small part of me that wishes my parents would change their tune, would support me wholeheartedly again, like they did when I was young and directionless. When I had no dreams or ambitions of my own, and happily went along with whatever they asked of me.

But I can’t be that person anymore. And I just wish they could love this version of me, too. The cursed voice in the back of my head insists I’m obsessing over this competition because of them. Because I want their approval and understanding.

The voice in my head also loves to remind me that no matter what I do, it’ll never be enough.

That I’ll never be enough.