My house isn’t the largest on the block, but it’s warm and comforting. My parents worked hard to buy it, so I never let myself appear ungrateful for it. They’ve done everything they can to ensure that Samir and I have a bright future ahead of us.

Our walls are painted sky blue, and our worn, mismatched furniture follows a similar color scheme. Surahs from the Quran hang as decoration from the walls, alongside paintings picked out by my mother. Flowerpots line the window sills, and I remind myself to water them in Baba’s absence. If his favorite marigolds die, he might burn down the entire house.

Ma stole some books from my shelves to display on the coffee table, but right now they’re hidden beneath Samir’s overflowing folders. Half the floor is wood paneled and the rest is covered by lilac carpet. There’s a smattering of blue from when Cora, Nandini, and I dropped nail polish last time they were over, and it’s a miracle my mother hasn’t noticed the stain yet.

Right now, a spectrum of colors is reflected against the living room walls as Samir plays a video game on the large, flat-screen television. Dadu and I both wince when a particularly gruesome death shows up on the screen.

I have to be careful not to jump at the gunshots, especially since a plate of steaming khichuri and dimer korma sits in my lap. There’s no way my mom won’t notice—or smell—the stain if I somehow tip my plate over.

I try to help Dadu with cooking when I can, though I’m not the best at it. We don’t talk about it a lot, but Dadu had a daughter who passed away when she was only seven. My dad barely got to know his younger sister—my would-be aunt—and no one ever brings it up for obvious reasons.

I think that’s part of why Dadu goes easier on all the girls in our family than our actual parents do. I have a plethora of girl cousins, and she treats every single one of them with incredible tenderness, as if to make up for her loss. My paternal grandpa, Dada, used to do the same before he passed away a year ago. I can’t begin to explain how much I cherish that.

I finish eating and set the plate down on the table before checking my phone. My feet are warm in my grandma’s lap as she reads the Bengali newspaper, her glasses sliding down her nose. Samir must have gotten it for her after his shift at the deli nearby, owned by one of my mom’s friends from the mosque.