She senses the futility of the question, for no one could answer it fully, truthfully. At best an answer would contain truths, half-truths, and fictions one wanted to believe. Leigh has answered before: because Seema is beautiful, Seema is resilient, Seema doesn’t let the world push her around.

But her resilience has come at the expense of keeping everyone at bay. She recalls her family, her friends, her lovers, her homes, the many she’s left behind or escaped from, so easily, so cavalierly, over the years. Only to foolishly grasp at the next whoever or whatever offers passing succor. Like Divya, and perhaps even Bill. At least she has resolved the matter with Divya: yesterday, after the meeting at the campaign office, she’d told Divya she shouldn’t have led her on, that she has no current intention of leaving Leigh.

If Leigh asked her the same question, Seema might reply: because Leigh is at ease with the world, Leigh makes life look easy, Leigh makes her happy.

She only knows how to fight the universe, as if there were no other way to access its secret store of happiness. Leigh is one of these afternoon revelers, who know what they want and are willing to accept it when offered.

If Seema were forced to be more truthful, she’d have to add: because Leigh also reminds her of her first and truest love, because she also fears having to bring up a child alone.

Perhaps it’s better to accept without scrutinizing the reasons too deeply, to not try to separate them into truths and fictions but value them as a whole. Much like religions do—she’s thinking now of Tahera—like faith does: For isn’t love just like religion, this faith in someone other than oneself to help steer through the flow and ebb of life, to give meaning to life?

“I’m thinking about you,” Seema says.

“What about me?” Leigh says.

“I’m thinking I can’t go through the delivery without you by my side.”

This at least is the truth. She is not promising anything beyond it—she cannot. She will speak to her mother—and if needed, her sister—about this. “I’m so happy,” Leigh says, but quietly, resting her head on Seema’s shoulder.

It must count for something that she, in some way, contributes to Leigh’s happiness. She takes Leigh’s palm and presses it to her belly. “Feel how strongly he kicks. He’s ready to meet us.”

It’s a signal of my growing distress, but they don’t know that. The sun is setting behind them, the city is flaring in front of them. She holds Leigh’s palm there, as they sit in their favorite spot—steeped in light that’s growing thick and darkly honeyed now, under a sky that sings in reds and oranges, then in pinks and purples. My two could-have-been mothers watch as the city first bursts into flames, then dies to ash-blue embers.