“Tara,” you start, and then stop at the sight of the red suitcase lying open on the living room floor, her clothes and belongings stacked in piles around it. “What are you doing?”

“I’m packing,” Tahera says.

“Why do you have to do that now?”

“I’m leaving. I’m going back to Irvine tonight.”

You stand still, not knowing what to make of her statement. Tahera is down on her knees, stowing her clothes in the suitcase. “Why? What’s happened?”

“My son is ill,” Tahera says.

You bend over Tahera’s suitcase, not sure whether you mean to help her pack or unpack. What could an eleven-year-old be suffering from that suddenly required his mother’s presence? Tahera must be overreacting. “How can you leave now? Seema will be in labor soon. Is Arshad really that sick?”

“What does it matter? He’s my son. I have to go. I want to go.” She dumps the last of her belongings into the suitcase and slams its top shut. “I’m not needed here anyway. You all can manage very well without me. Go, enjoy the feast I cooked for Seema and her friends.”

You place a hand on your daughter’s shoulder to help her rise, worried now. You lower your voice: you don’t want anyone in the kitchen to hear you. “I didn’t want to keep our guests waiting. I’m sorry I asked them to start without you. I still haven’t eaten. Come, don’t behave like a child. You’ll spoil the evening—you put so much effort into it.”

Tahera, squatting on the floor, stares up at you—she seems to have shrunk to the willful child you once knew her to be, though never as wayward as Seema. She shrugs your hand away, and struggles to rise, lifting the suitcase at the same time.

“Yes, I’m the one spoiling the evening. It doesn’t matter that Seema already has. She gets to do whatever she wants, and you’ll still fly to her side, even feed her your biryani.”

“Tahera, please!” you say, gesturing her to calm down. Surely Seema and her friends must be listening—the sounds of eating have ceased. You glance back at the kitchen door—at least no one’s watching. You lower your voice even further: “What’s all this about?”

“Ask her what kind of relationship she has with her friend.” She resists your attempts to lead her to Seema’s room. “I thought she’d given up all those haram activities.”

You’re perturbed: How did she learn about Leigh? But more importantly, what do you tell her? Grandmother, how do you speak when you haven’t made peace yet with Seema’s choices yourself, even though just a few minutes ago you’d been grateful for the friendship and love surrounding her?

“Tahera, this is not the time to discuss this,” you say in Urdu, so Leigh won’t understand—you wish you hadn’t been speaking in English before. “They will hear. Please.”

“So you knew, already,” Tahera replies, still in English. “You knew and didn’t tell me. What you must think of me, that I wouldn’t help if I knew, even if my dying mother asked.”