Priam and Dad immigrated here with my mum from Sri Lanka before I was born, and Priam met Vicki shortly after, when he abandoned the path set out for him in engineering to pursue musical theater. Thatha was pissed about Priam’s choice, but because they were brothers, my mum had explained, Thatha had helped support Priam through theater school nonetheless. Thatha worked extra-long hours at his engineering job to make sure Priam could live out his dream.

Lucky you, Priam.

Before the accident, we mostly saw Priam and Vicki for Sunday night dinners, special occasions, and the odd performance one of them found themselves in. And when I say “odd,” I don’t mean “occasional.” I mean rolling-around-on-the-stage-in-spandex-between-inflatable-palm-trees odd. I remember my dad shifting in his seat during the first half of these performances, then dozing off during the second half. He and I would make fun of these ridiculous shows afterward in the car ride home, while Amma sat quietly in the front seat.

Amma had thought more highly of Priam and Vicki than we did, and I remember overhearing one conversation where she tried to convince my dad that Priam did the right thing by following his passion. It was rare for her to speak up like that, and I’d been surprised. Not that she’d convinced my dad or me, though.

I guess Priam and Vicki had seen how much Dad pushed me toward engineering and science, because they constantly sent Amma websites for fine arts classes and kept inviting us out to various performances. Thatha hated that. And I did too, even though part of me was intrigued by the blurbs Amma read out to me—photography workshops, pottery making, taiko drumming. But my contact with Priam and Vicki was limited because my dad made it so.

Once I asked Thatha if he’d be closer to Uncle Priam if Priam was an engineer too, like my dad was. Thatha had laughed. “Priam doesn’t have what it takes to be an engineer. Don’t talk nonsense.” So whenever my mum asked if I was interested in one of the activities Priam and Vicki had suggested for me, I responded with some version of, “Sounds like nonsense to me.”

Sitting through Vicki and Priam’s morning soap operas—while truly absurd and awkward—could at least be entertaining once in a while. But sitting through classes was just plain excruciating—the kind of pain I didn’t invite. I had to remind myself, though, to keep my eyes on the prize: graduate and get the hell out of here. I had my sights on a college in Southern California, where it was warm, skateboarding was still rad, and I could figure out what I wanted to do with my life away from here. Away from anyone who knew my “tragic past.” Somewhere no one knew me enough to constantly ask how I was feeling.