The sisters look as if they’re just starting their day, too, in their matching pink aprons and caps. They run a hair salon out of their basement. If Mansoor knew that she still goes to The Pink Comb, he would be livid. “They’re running that business illegally, Layla. Just go to a regular salon, will you?” Besides, they are not just her friends. They are like family. They remind her of her sisters. Her mother, too. That’s whom she misses the most. The company of women she loved, women she laughed with, women who knew everything about her. Without them, it feels as though pieces of her are missing.

When she told Shamma and Almas that Ashif was coming home, they asked her to bring him around for tea. She didn’t have the heart to say no, so she said she would try her best.

They’ve known Ashif since he was a child; he even calls them masi, the formal name for a mother’s sister. But there would be no time. He was only coming for lunch, even though he was going to be in Calgary for two nights before leaving for Vancouver for two more. Her heart broke when he gave her the news. She had not seen him for over a year now.

“At least come to jamatkhana with me on Wednesday? It’s such a big night,” she said, holding back her tears. “It’s the Night of Power and everyone will be there.” After all, praying on the Lailatul Qadr is equivalent to one thousand nights of prayer. It’s the most powerful night of Ramadan, the month when Allah revealed the first chapters of the Koran to the Prophet.

“But I’m there for work, Mummy,” Ashif said. “I’m booked from morning to night.”

“Why don’t you come after you finish in Vancouver on Friday? Stay with us for the weekend. We’ll have so much fun.”

“My flight is already booked back to Toronto. The company would never pay for the change fees. And they’re an arm and a leg.”

“Okay,” she said, though she was not sure exactly what “arm and leg” meant. Her son speaks English with his father and a mix of English and Kutchi with her. Her English is good, but she often finds it difficult to follow what he says—not only because of the words he uses, but also because of his Canadian accent. As if he is from a different country, but of course he is not! She sometimes has to patch his words together. She agrees with him regardless of whether she understands him or not. But if he catches her, he berates her, tells her she has to learn to speak up. “It’s a free country, Mummy! Just say what you want.” She accepts his admonishments. Yet there are times when she wants to remind him that she is his mother.

“I want to come, Mummy,” Ashif explained. “But I’m so busy. You know that.”

“Yes, I know, bheta,” she said, though she wasn’t sure why her son is always so busy. She doesn’t fully understand what he does for work. But she knows he has an important job at a big-big company.