There’s no arguing with Umma when she tells you to eat. I pick up a spoon and dig into the fried rice. Oh, heaven. When’s the last time I had a home-cooked meal like this? Not that I don’t eat well as an idol. In the past five months alone, I’ve had mouthwatering, steaming xiaolongbao in Shanghai, chili crab so fresh it could have walked off my plate in Singapore, and decadent chocolate mousse in Paris. But none of those foods—and none of those places—can compare to a simple, delicious meal, lovingly prepared at home. Even a “home” that’s brand-new to me.

I look around the apartment from my seat, drinking in as many details as I can. It’s both bigger and newer than our old place, with huge windows and an amazing view of the nighttime city lights in the distance, but I’m glad my family decided to bring most of our old furniture over. There’s the area rug with its edges frayed from time; the white couch that Umma bought after Leah turned twelve, saying we were responsible enough now not to get it dirty. Ten minutes later, I promptly spilled banana milk all over it. The living room is full of Appa’s potted plants, green leaves arching up toward the family photos hanging on the walls. I trace a curling vine of a hoya plant with my eyes, following as it loops along the frame of one of my favorite photos of Leah—the one with her missing both front teeth. Even though it’s a new home, it feels so familiar, it makes my heart ache.

“What happened to your foot?” Appa asks, his eyes landing on my red toe.

“One of the girls accidentally stepped on me during the performance,” I say, tucking my left foot behind my right calf. I don’t want Appa to worry. “It’s okay. It feels better now.”

He makes a tsking sound. “Still. Let me get you some ice,” he says, already halfway to the freezer.