When I finally trudged across the hall to pee, praying I’d avoid Priam and Vicki at least until the morning, I’d stayed seated on the toilet way longer than needed—gazing into the musical notes scattered across the shower curtain like annoying little reminders to “perk up” and “look on the bright side.” Staring at them just made my eyes water, though, so I flushed, washed my hands while carefully evading my own reflection in the mirror, and crept back across the hall again.

“Daya Doo Wop!”

Please, no.

“Your shirt says ‘Daya Doo Wop’! I love it!”

My hand froze around the doorknob to my room and I reflexively squeezed tight before turning to face Priam.

He couldn’t avoid my face like I just had, and it made the delight in his own expression slip away. Something in the concern that crept into his features—the frown that creased his brow, the compressed line of his lips—reminded me so much of Thatha that my chest broke open. My face contracted and sobs escaped from somewhere deep inside of me.

“Oh my Daya…”

When I felt his arms around me, I didn’t resist.

My bed sagged beneath the weight of all three of us—Uncle Priam, me, and Vicki. They flanked me, Priam’s fingers patting my shoulder in a tentative gesture of comfort, Vicki’s hand rubbing my back with enough zeal that my body wagged back and forth with each rub.

Uncharacteristically, they’d remained mostly quiet since Priam had guided me into my room and called Vicki up. Besides a bewildered “Oh, darling” from Vicki and a “Can I get you some biscuits? Chocolate? Cheezies?” from Priam, their response had mostly consisted of patting and rubbing.

I’d been unable to stop blubbering, a continuous stream of snot and tears emptying into my lap until Vicki finally ran to the bathroom for a box of tissues and began mopping up my face with several.

After I’d had enough face dabbing, I finally gathered myself and took the bundle of wet tissues from her to wipe my own face.

Once I was done, Vicki finally started, “We’re here, Daya. If you feel ready to tell us what’s going on.”

“Yes, Daya—you can tell us anything,” Priam added. Pat, pat.

“Anything at all.” Rub, rub.

Could I, though? Tell them anything? And if I could, where was the beginning? Or the end?