My heart clenches. I jolt to a stop next to him and strain my ears. Sure enough, through the closed doors, I can hear my aunt’s voice, rising over my mom’s softer, apologetic one. It’s like listening to a whole different person. Gone is the self-assured lawyer who addresses almost everyone—babies, businessmen, waiters, puppies, you name it—in the same clipped, no-nonsense tone. Right now, she just sounds like a chastened child. My aunt is probably the only person in the world who can have that effect on her.

I attempt to focus on the conversation, but I can’t understand anything either of them is saying, except for my name, which pops up at an alarming frequency.

“She says your cousin is having second thoughts,” Cyrus murmurs.

I turn to him, my wariness waging war against my need to know exactly what they’re talking about.

“She’s really superstitious, apparently,” Cyrus continues translating, his brows furrowed in concentration, his ear pressed to the door. “Won’t stick her chopsticks upright in rice. Hates the number four. She doesn’t even like to use four exclamation points in a row. She took a trip all the way to this sacred fountain at the top of the Yellow Mountain last month, just to pray for a happy marriage, but … she thinks her marriage is doomed now.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and wonder if it’s physically possible to die from guilt. Like, maybe the sheer weight of it will crush my organs. And if not that, then maybe my aunt’s disapproval will do the trick. I keep replaying the way she glowered at me before she chased after her crying daughter, like she was affronted by the very idea that we’re connected by blood.

Her voice grows louder now, sharper, until eavesdropping becomes unnecessary. It would be harder not to hear her speaking. My name comes up again, spat out.

“She says …” Cyrus hesitates.

“Tell me,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just tell me.”

He clears his throat. “She says … your mother should be ashamed of herself for raising such an ignorant foreigner.”

An ignorant foreigner. I try to hold the words out at a safe, painless distance, like when you have to grab something hot from the oven, careful not to let it burn any exposed skin. But my mental grip slips, and it burns me anyway, searing my face and my chest. I twist my head toward the wall so Cyrus can’t see my expression.

“Leah,” he begins, in a tone that sounds suspiciously like sympathy. “I think—”