My mom glares at him but turns back to me with a smile. Now that I’m paying attention, she definitely looks ill. “We leave so soon, it’s strange. It feels like it went by so fast.”

You have no idea, I want to say. “I know. I can’t believe you come back on Sunday. What time does your flight get in?”

“We come at night.” Her face is warm and welcoming, even though it’s slightly ashen and there are dark circles under her eyes. “I can’t wait to see you and Samir again.”

My dad comes into the shot, loosening his tie, and a smile takes over his face, too. Both of them? Maybe they’re drunk. We’re not supposed to drink alcohol because it’s haram and we’re Muslim, but I can’t think of another explanation. “Myra!”

“As-salaam alaikum,” I repeat, scratching my head. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

“It was okay,” he says, sitting next to my mom and squishing his face into the frame. Oh, he looks sick as well. I should probably be less surprised, since I also fell ill last time I went to Bangladesh. Even though visiting is always lovely, the air pollution is difficult to handle. The food also sometimes affects our stomachs, which sucks because my relatives always put so much effort into making extravagant meals that look and taste fantastic. With that in mind, I discard my drunk theory. They’re definitely being nice because they’re sick.

“I can’t wait to get home,” my mom says, rubbing her eyes. “And hug you and Samir.”

“It’s miserable here,” my dad adds, even though my mom swats him on the arm. “I’ve never missed home so much.”

I smile, but I’m worried they’re a ticking bomb. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

God, I need to calm down.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Okay. Okay. If they’re in a good mood right now, I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Looking a gift horse in the mouth is bad practice, after all. “I’m excited to see you both again, too.”

“Mashallah, our beautiful girl,” Ma says, holding a hand to her heart. “How have you been doing? Are you eating enough? Sleeping enough? Doing all your homework?”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to fidget. “How about you guys?”

“Don’t worry about us,” Baba says. There’s a faint look of nausea on his face, but he’s clearly fighting past it. “You guys are what’s important. Is there anything specific you want from Bangladesh? Gifts or anything? Your mom already bought you a lot of clothes, but is there anything else?”