All those months before her baby’s birth, Sarina had lain awake missing home, wondering if in the chaos of that evening, her father had grasped the opportunity to rid himself of her husband, whom he considered a boil on the body of the family. Painful as it was, Sarina believed that dispatching them to America had served her father’s deeper purpose. If only he had not done so in such a draconian manner.

Sarina sank against the pillows and closed her eyes. She should be angry with her husband for failing her these last months; but then, on that chaotic day in India, with everyone rushing to sort and pack things, with concern that at any moment the house might come under attack, Zachary sat in their quarters and moped. He helped no one to do anything; he did not even pack his own clothes and books. Later, when they were alone and she was frightened, when her sisters’ husbands comforted them with a hug, a reassuring smile, he distanced himself from her, offering neither support nor reassurance. Crisis immobilized him! Shocked and mortified at his indifference, his ineffectiveness, she had lowered her eyes in front of her parents.

Sarina squeezed her eyes tight to hold back tears. Zachary had been neither kind nor supportive of her, nor had he expressed gratitude or appreciation to his father for welcoming them with open arms. Zachary had not hugged her or dried her tears when she wept for home and family. Instead, he exhibited hostility toward those who stepped forward to offer support: Hannah, Grace, Amelia, his father, and Anna. Without them, how would she have survived?

So, why wasn’t she angry with him? Because, she told herself, this is not the time or the place for anger. We have a child. It is a time for gladness and celebration, for patience and understanding. Her capacity for forgiving ran deep, and she worried that she would be called upon, repeatedly, to draw from that reservoir. But for today, for now, joy must prevail. She opened her eyes and smiled at Zachary.

Feeling disoriented, Zachary walked slowly across the hospital parking lot searching for his white Camry among the plethora of white Toyotas. Finally, his handheld clicker made contact and lights flashed. When he unlocked the door and slipped into the front seat, a wave of heat wrapped about him. Zachary started the engine and waited for relief from the air-conditioning. He thought of his baby, his little girl, and brushed away tears of joy.

Holding the baby had nearly overwhelmed him, nearly brought him to his knees. He ached to beg Sarina’s forgiveness for bringing her to Covington and abandoning her. “I wasn’t myself,” he wanted to whisper. “It was terrifying—the mobs, the noise, the fires, the gunshots, all that happened in India—and we have never even talked about it.”