“Am I allowed to sign this? My name appears in the will.”

“I’d like something signed before I go into labor. I’ll ask Fiaz later.”

But Tahera hasn’t spoken to Ismail yet. She hadn’t expected to be confronted by anything official so soon. Also, she’d meant to clarify with Seema the matter of her child’s upbringing in Islam. Tahera cannot agree to anything else, of course. But given the events in Irvine, she’s not prepared to have that discussion now, when she herself is conflicted about the wisdom, though not the rightness, of some of the choices she’s made for her children.

Meanwhile, not waiting for her answer, Seema has uncapped the pen and sprawled her signature across the bottom of the page. Then, while extending them to Tahera, Seema calls out to their mother, “Ammi, can you come in here for a minute?”

Perhaps Ammi would object to the making of a will today, deeming it inauspicious, affording Tahera a delay. But Nafeesa merely dries her hands on her saree and, taking the pen and paper from Seema, signs and dates the form as a witness.

Tahera cannot refuse now: she cannot appear to be backing away from her promise in the presence of her mother. It has brought her mother some happiness in her last days, and she can’t take it away. She also cannot bear to introduce discord into today. She signs and dates beneath Nafeesa’s signature, trying to recapture the moment that had led her to accept Seema’s request: her face in Seema’s lap, her arms around Seema, with both Seema and the baby comforting her, each in their own ways. It had truly felt like Allah’s answer to her istikhara, that the guardianship and the renewed intimacy with her sister were right and good, for both Tahera and her faith.

And with this signature I formally gain a could-be mother.

25

Grandmother, you’re glad to get the day’s preparations started. There’s a mound of red onions and tomatoes to be sliced, bunches of mint and coriander to be picked, almonds to be blanched and slivered, garlic and ginger to be peeled and ground to paste, meat to be cleaned and trimmed. And of course Tahera is doing most of it. She keeps an eye on you to make sure that you don’t take on anything too taxing, and you keep an eye on her to make sure everything’s done right—she tends to slice the onions too thickly, for example, which won’t meld into the biryani as they should, but she blames it on how unusually pungent they are, making her eyes water so. Seema has closeted herself in her bedroom to avoid the fumes.

It’s tedious work, and both of you labor quietly through the morning, you making light of your aches and pains and she of her period-related discomforts, so you can embark on the actual cooking in the afternoon. She has mentioned a few times already that she’s lucky to be able to learn from a master, and you hope you haven’t lost your touch.