“I’m just glad to be home,” Baba says, wrapping an arm around Samir’s shoulders. “No more shopping for your mother, and finally some rest for me.”

“But we’re going bowling this weekend, right?” Samir asks, nudging my dad.

Baba makes a face. “Maybe next weekend. I don’t think I’m quite up to it yet.”

“I, for one, can’t wait to go home and sleep,” my mom says, fanning herself. “And have some decent medicine.”

Samir laughs. “You just need a good dose of NyQuil, Ma.”

She nods in agreement. “That’s exactly what I need. That and my two kids.”

Without warning, she pulls us both into another hug. I blink at Dadu over my mom’s shoulder, and she only shakes her head, looking equally mystified.

My parents are being too nice. It’s uncomfortable. There’s a weird tension in my gut, my muscles strung tight.

“What’s wrong with them?” I whisper to my grandma as we head for the parking lot, where my uncle is waiting to pick her up.

She nudges me. “Maybe they had a change of heart. Being sick on vacation is never fun. Perhaps it made them grateful for the finer things in life. Life lessons come when you least expect them, trust me. Dada and I learned many in surprising places.”

“I can only hope,” I say, watching my parents poke at Samir’s ribs, complaining he’s barely eaten since they left.

As we enter the lot, a wave of sadness strikes me. It’s time to say goodbye.

Dadu says farewell to Samir first, hugging him and ruffling his hair, telling him to take care of himself.

Then it’s my turn.

“Myra,” Dadu says, gently cupping my face. “I’m so proud of you. In this last month alone, I’ve watched you grow incredible amounts. I’m going to miss you so much. Please be kind to yourself when I’m gone, and call me if you need anything. I’m always here for you.”

“Get a cell phone so I can text you,” I joke, even though my heart is heavy. I don’t want her to go.

She nods seriously. “I’ll look into that with your uncle. Until then, you can always call my home phone. Okay?”

“Okay.” I hug her tightly. “Thank you for everything, Dadu. I’ll miss you.”

Please don’t go, I want to say. Please stay forever.

But there’s no stopping this. It’s inevitable, like most things in my life.

Before I know it, Dadu is gone, waving from a window as my uncle’s car drives away.

I miss her already.

“Oh, don’t look so sad, Myra.” Baba squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll visit her again soon and now you have us back.”

“Yeah,” I say. But how long will this last? How long until I become the daughter that constantly disappoints you again?