Seema shows interest as well, and Tahera remembers how the children couldn’t stop speaking about their aunt after their visit to San Francisco. “Enough about me and my children—what have you been doing for a week? Seema, were you at work?”

“I took most of the week off,” Seema says. “I’m on maternity leave now. But I’m still doing some volunteering—for an election campaign. I took Ammi with me to some meetings.” She smiles at Nafeesa. “Hopefully Ammi wasn’t too bored.”

Nafeesa shakes her head. It was interesting, she says, especially since the candidate—What’s her name? Kamala something?—is Indian. She’d enjoyed seeing so many different people at the meeting, so many young people, Indians too. And she’d listened with pleasure to Seema addressing them from the podium.

“Half-Tamil, half-Black,” Seema corrects. “Her mother’s from Chennai and her father’s from Jamaica.” She explains to Tahera that she knows San Francisco’s district attorney through her friend Divya and has been advising her campaign for state attorney general on public relations issues. The race is very close. In fact, Obama is in San Francisco that very evening to drum up funds and support for the midterm elections. “How is it in Texas?”

Tahera shrugs. “I don’t have time to follow politics. I’ve enough to do at the clinic and at home. Wait till you have patients and children and a husband to take care of. It’s three full-time jobs.”

She knows she’s gone too far when Nafeesa shoots her a glance. They’re not to allude to Seema’s husband, Bill, or her divorce. Tahera subsides but is pleased when Seema bites her lip and pretends to search through the chicken for a choice piece.

Tahera’s triumph is short-lived. “Here’s the neck, Tahera, your favorite part. Do you want it?” Seema says, the spoon poised over Tahera’s plate.

“No, let me finish what I have first.” Her mother has noticed now that she hasn’t touched the chicken. She should have hidden a portion in the rice.

An awkward silence follows. With the silence, Nafeesa’s actions get slower and slower. Her bony fingers idly push the rice and chicken around. The few small mouthfuls she takes remain long in her gaunt cheeks. Her hand falls lifelessly back to the plate.

“Are you okay, Ammi?” Seema asks.

“Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Go rest, Ammi. Seema and I’ll clean up.” Tahera can’t bear to watch her mother wilt any more.

Nafeesa rises. “Yes, I think I’ll go to bed. You both should eat some more. There’s also kheer in the fridge.”

Seema follows Nafeesa out of the kitchen. “I’ll be back, just making sure Ammi has everything she needs.”