Seema struggles off the table awkwardly, triggering your natural instinct to go to her aid, but you’re paralyzed by spasms of censure cramping through you: This is surely Seema’s fault. It’s her fault that there’s only this motley group to depend on—a couple of friends, inexperienced and uncommitted, a distant sister, a dying mother—and no husband, no father. It’s her fault that your grandson is to be robbed of a father, a grandfather, and a full and fulfilling childhood. It’s her fault that you too were robbed of your full family and a fulfilled past.

And, as though your heart and mind—revolting against being asked to withstand the extremes you’ve swung through the last few minutes, from boundless affection toward Seema to censure—have released some check on your body, the pain from earlier this morning comes surging back. You begin to shake uncontrollably.

Seema has left the room with her friend and the doctor before your distress is noticeable. Tahera and Fiaz surround you.

Ammi? Aunty? What’s happening? Are you okay?

You clench your jaw and breathe out—I’m fine, I’m fine. You don’t want to make a scene. Already the sonologist is gaping at you, unease on his face. You grasp Tahera’s hand to steady yourself and ask her to lead you out of the room. Fiaz and Tahera assist you back to reception, the pain pulsing every step of the way. Fiaz eases you onto a seat, and Tahera sits beside you, stroking your still-shuddering shoulders and chest.

Fiaz hovers about with questions: Shall I get her some water? Should we call someone?

The receptionist makes as if to hurry toward you, and you wave her back. “Where’s Seema?” you pant. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Don’t worry about Seema,” Tahera says. She rubs your palms and blows into them, as you’d done to her many times when she was a child, in a futile attempt to ease the pain.

You’d been caught off guard by the suddenness with which it returned. You know its course, its peak and gradual ebb—you’d like to be alone with it. “I want to leave. Everybody is staring at me.”

You try to push yourself off your seat. Fiaz lends you his arm.

“Ammi, stay here till you feel better. It’s raining,” Tahera says.

Yes, outside everything is a blur, only smudged shapes visible through the raindrops that break against the glass and speckle the window.

“We can wait in the car,” Fiaz says, responding to your tightening grip on his arm. “Leigh is with Seema. She’ll take care of her.”