“Thanks,” she says, glancing down at the material. It’s a pretty orange color, a fading sunset, with exquisite purple designs woven in. I wonder if I can find something similar in Ma’s closet. “I like yours, too.”

Ya Allah, this is awkward. She keeps eyeing her parents in a way that’s making me increasingly uncomfortable.

“Do you want to watch something?” I ask. I’d suggest abandoning the room altogether, but I probably shouldn’t leave before I have a chance to properly talk to her parents.

“Sure,” Fatima says, and I click on the newest Netflix original movie.

Ten minutes into watching it, I understand Fatima’s uneasiness.

“Fatima decided to double major in biology and psychology,” Pooja Auntie says to Dadu, mouth curled in an unattractive sneer.

Oh jeez. Psychology isn’t scientific enough for a lot of brown parents. I know this because I’ve asked my parents about it halfheartedly in the past, and they looked at me like I’d asked for a million dollars.

This explains what Fatima wanted to talk to Dadu about. I sigh internally, knowing even Dadu can’t ward off the contempt radiating from Fatima’s parents.

“Now she has to stay in her undergrad for another year,” Mustafa Uncle says, rubbing his temples. “It’s horrible.”

“I chose to stay in my undergrad for another year,” Fatima says, her voice sullen.

A small part of me is jealous of Fatima for pursuing what she wants, which is probably a bad thing. No, it’s definitely a bad thing, because her parents look like they’re one word away from dragging her outside and screaming at her.

“It’s embarrassing, Fatima,” Mustafa Uncle says, shaking his head. “You should have finished your biology degree. Now med school is going to be postponed.”

If I tell my parents I want to pursue English, they’re going to look at me the way Fatima’s parents are looking at her right now. They’ll never be able to forgive me, much less speak to me again. My heart constricts at the thought.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

As discreetly as possible, I reach toward the center table and open one of the drawers, pulling out a candle and lighter. Within seconds, the scent of lavender fills the room, and my muscles relax infinitesimally.

“This isn’t the place for this, Mustafa,” Dadu says, giving her eldest son a hard look before turning a warmer gaze toward Fatima. “I’m very excited for you, dear. You’re going to do amazing. Mashallah.”

Fatima’s expression lightens, and I’m glad to see it. As always, Dadu is ready to stand between us and the world. “Thank you, Dadu.”