“Shut up,” I say halfheartedly. “You’ve ditched school for video games before. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Touché.” He considers me, and the amusement falls from his expression. “Do you have a math test or something? You should’ve texted me. I would’ve come home from work earlier last night if you needed help.”

Despite everything, I smile. “No, but thanks. I’m good.”

Dadu reappears, waving the thermometer haphazardly. “Myra, sit up. Let me see.”

“That would be my cue to leave,” Samir says, grinning as he waves a hand. “See you later, Dadu. Later, slacker.”

I roll my eyes as he leaves and Dadu comes to take my temperature. It’s only slightly above average, but she still asks, “Do you need to go to the doctor?”

I shake my head. “Just one day of rest, I think.”

This would never work with my parents, but Dadu likes to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. The stories of my father’s childhood in Bangladesh sound like heaven—tales of him and his brothers playing hooky and skipping school to go to the beach, where they’d spend hours lying in the sun and fooling around. He usually leaves his late sister out of those stories. I don’t blame him, but it makes me sad.

Maybe the loss of his sister made him more restrictive, the same way that it made Dadu more lenient. People react to grief differently.

I think being around my mom has furthered that restrictive behavior, since my maternal grandparents are a lot more strict than Dadu. Nanu and Nana have never been anything but kind to me, sending me gifts and the like, but I know they’re the reason Ma expects so much from me. They raised her a certain way, and now she’s trying to raise me the same way, even though our generations are vastly different. It’s hard sometimes to separate my parents’ beliefs from my culture and my religion, but at the end of the day, I know it has nothing to do with being Bangladeshi or being Muslim. Blaming it on either of those would be turning to a scapegoat. They both make me who I am.

I love Bangladeshi culture—from the lyrical poetry to the hearty food to the breathtaking fashion. And I find comfort in being Muslim, in praying, in believing. In my heart, I know that Allah loves me, no matter what. If only I could say the same for my parents.

Dadu pats my cheek. “Go back to sleep. I’ll make chai and we can have a movie marathon later.”

“Thank you, Dadu. I’d love that,” I say and burrow into my blankets. Before I fall back asleep, I shoot Nandini and Cora a quick text saying: I’ll be absent today :( I’m not feeling well, sorry guys!!!