“Your cousin Zahra,” Ma says, holding her hand out so I can see the design better. I’m always so impressed by the talent Bangladeshi artists have. Every year, I await Eid eagerly, for many reasons, but especially for the clothes, jewelry, and henna designs. “She’s trying to teach me, but...” She holds out her other hand where the design looks as if it was drawn by a three-year-old.

I try not to laugh.

Ma sighs. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s great,” I say through muffled giggles. She levels me with a flat look, and I grin. “Practice makes perfect?”

“I suppose,” she says, considering her hands before looking up, scrutinizing me. “There’s something different about you.”

All my amusement dies. “Is there?”

She tilts her head, her eyebrows knitting together. “Did you change your skin routine?”

I roll with it immediately. “Yes,” I say, nodding. Ever since my mom started working in a dermatology office as a receptionist, she’s been hyperaware of skin products. “Cora’s mom brought some face wash from her last business trip. My skin feels so rejuvenated.”

“Which brand is it?” Ma asks curiously.

“Uh. Good question.” I scratch my head. “I can’t remember. I’ll text you a picture later tonight, when I’m applying it.” Translation: I will text Cora begging for help.

Ma nods, as if satisfied. “How is everything else? Baba told me you wanted to invite Cora and Nandini over?”

I nod slowly, trying not to look too overeager. “Can I? It’s been so long since they last came over.”

She hums. “Only if you clean the entire house. Promise?”

“Promise,” I say, flashing her a shaky thumbs-up. “I’ll start after I finish my precalc homework.”

“Mashallah,” my mother says, a smile spreading across her face. “I’m glad to see you’re working hard.”

Another nagging stab of guilt. “I try my best.”

Our conversation ends soon after that, and I exhale deeply, trying to get rid of the lingering unease.

A text from Ace flashes across my screen.

Alistair Clyde:

i showed my mom ur insta post and she says we make a cute couple. i’m inclined to agree...

I grin despite myself. I’m obvs bringing the cute to the table... what’s your contribution???

“Myra?”

I look up. Dadu stands over me holding a small bowl of rosogolla, spongy white sweets in sugary syrup. It’s one of my favorite desserts, and it lightens the load on my shoulders.

I sit up and reach for it. She offers me a spoon before sitting beside me on the couch. “Thank you,” I say.

“You look happy today,” Dadu says as I take a bite.

I smile faintly, gesturing toward the bowl. “Well, you made rosogolla.”

She shakes her head, eyes trailing over my expression. “No, not because of that. When you came in today, there was something different about you. Your steps seem lighter.”