“Let’s not talk about Ammi.” The morning’s wretchedness is too fresh. There’s clearly not much time left for their mother, and much of what’s left is to be consumed by pain. The worst of the morning is the memory of her trying to force her mother to apologize for wanting to ease her heart’s worries about her other child. Why fault Ammi, when she herself cares for Arshad and Amina so differently? And as for Ammi’s behest: If you want to help me, help Seema . . .

Seema senses Tahera’s ache. Unlike the previous times when Tahera rebuffed conversation involving their mother, her current tone doesn’t signal a rebuke. Soon, when only reminiscences will have the power to bring their mother back to some semblance of life, who can they talk to about their mother but each other? And how are they to do that, without reopening old wounds, reliving old griefs?

As if not knowing what to do next, Tahera starts massaging her feet all over again. “Stop, Tahera. My feet have had enough, thank you.”

How to comfort a sister she hasn’t comforted in so many years, or perhaps never? She’d like to touch Tahera’s bent head, to stroke her hair, but though she has accepted Tahera’s attentions of the past twenty-four hours, she’s unsure how Tahera might react to her overtures. You couldn’t be bothered with me, Seema, Tahera said only yesterday. Reclaiming her feet from Tahera’s lap, Seema manages to find her voice. “Tahera, can I ask you something?”

Tahera stirs, but she doesn’t look up. “Is it about the guardianship? I haven’t spoken to Ismail yet.”

“No. Can I ask—what happened? After I left?”

“What happened?” Tahera rises abruptly. “You really want to know?”

Seema nods, unsure if Tahera’s question is merely rhetorical. Her sister is a hazy vision standing by her side, her face a blur Seema is glad she cannot read.

“Here, let me give your shoulders a massage too,” Tahera responds gruffly. “Ammi says you were complaining about a backache.”

Seema doesn’t demur. Standing behind Seema, Tahera sinks her fingers into muscles tense from holding extra weight, growing pliable in her hands as she digs into them. Her posture, the pressure, the concentration, is familiar to Tahera from childhood massages practiced on her parents and occasionally even her sister. From there, it’s a small step to another more frequent childhood ritual. “Your hair’s all tangled, let me fetch a comb. Single or double?”

A single plait, like when they’d do their hair in college, twin plaits like they remade for each other every morning before school.

“You choose.”