Behind and above me, I heard the journal’s spine creak open, the flipping of pages, and then two quick, sharp inhalations.

And then two bums slid down beside me.

“Daya, you have to know this isn’t true,” Priam said, his voice almost pleading. This wasn’t his breakfast drama voice, though. It sound different. More serious. Almost like my dad.

“Why in the world would you think such a thing, Daya?” Vicki whispered, like she really couldn’t believe it. “It was just an accident. A terrible, unfair accident.”

She placed her arm around my shoulders, but I didn’t deserve it. I leaned forward. Her hand remained on my back.

As though I was telling only the space between my knees, I forced the words out. “Thatha got distracted. They were fighting. Because of me. Because I wasn’t strong enough. He was so mad and Amma was so upset. And I’d made them that way.”

My tears had dried up and I was already too broken to fracture any further. I just waited for Vicki’s hand to pull away. For them both to pull away. For my real punishment to come.

Instead I felt four arms reach around me and pull me in.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Daya, my brother could be a real asshole. I know that, and you know that.”

I couldn’t believe Priam was saying this. We’d moved downstairs to the kitchen and were seated at the table, drinking tea. I was exhausted, but even in my exhaustion, I could feel defensiveness rise up.

“He put you through college,” I said, staring into my mug.

“That’s true. He did. And I’ve always been grateful for that. But it didn’t give him the right to judge my choices.”

Vicki jumped in. “We’re not saying he was a bad person—”

“Just that he was an asshole,” I snapped.

“Well—yes.” She hesitated and side-eyed Priam. “What we mean is, he could be… hard. But he had his reasons. And he could be kind, too.”

Kind? That wasn’t a word I’d use to describe my dad. Committed, sometimes goofy, tireless, strong. But not kind. My face gave away my thoughts.

“He was!” Vicki insisted, smiling a little. “Priam, tell her, darling.”

Priam toyed with Toto the pepper shaker. “It’s true,” he said, aiming his words at Toto and nodding. “I know it was hard to see, but do you know”—he looked up at me—“that he taught me to play the piano?”

What? “Dad played the piano?”

“Beautifully! He gave it up when he came here—like he gave up boxing—but those fingers of his could do a lot more than just punch at things, you know? In Sri Lanka he taught me everything he knew, and he was so patient with me—even as a teenager.”

Mind blown.