You shrink at her anger—where does it stem from? You want to deny knowledge, you want to say: I learned of it only today, I learned of it from Fiaz. You know she’s seeking reassurance that she’s a good daughter, and you want to assure her you know of her love and thoughtfulness and kindness toward you. But you’re so focused on preventing further disruption to the evening, that instead you say, “Tahera, they are our guests. What will they think?”

“Let them think what they want. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.” She turns toward the kitchen. “I’m not the one violating Allah’s decrees. And for what? Just because Seema wants to draw attention to herself, she wants to think herself different—unique—so she can look down her nose on the rest of us, as though we’re mindless sheep for following the Quran and the Prophet.”

She makes a quick round of the room, as if searching for something. You follow a step behind her, trying to gather your courage to hold her by the arms and calm her down, if you still have the strength to.

You know your words from the afternoon rankled: she includes you when she talks about being looked down upon. You want to tell her: it wasn’t just frustration that drove you but sorrow too. You know as well as, if not more than, anyone else the effect of the constraints on one’s lives, real or assumed, imposed from the outside or by the self. For hadn’t you let yourself be ruled by your husband’s dictums all these years and paid the price for adhering to them, and for breaking them? The price in both cases was crippling.

But you can’t say this, because you know your comparison won’t be welcome. You can’t tell her, when she’s this angry, that you understand Allah can demand a heavy price from His creation. That you understand she believes she has no choice in the matter. Just like Seema does.

Tahera sees the Quran and rehal on the bookshelf, grabs them, and darts to open her suitcase to put them away.

“Tara—” You touch her arm, grieving for both your daughters. Why should they each struggle separately, when they have each other and could use each other’s support? “Don’t judge your sister so harshly. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“Always thinking only about Seema.” She spins around to strike your hand away. “I’m not doing any judging. But Allah will. She will burn in Jahannam if she doesn’t correct her ways.”

The upright suitcase, latches released, falls open. In Tahera’s haste to prevent its contents from tumbling out, she lets the Quran and rehal slip from her hands. The hardback suitcase halves crash to the floor anyway, followed by the thump of the Quran, and the clatter of the rehal.

You’d stepped back to avoid them landing on your feet, and you stumble. You’re afraid you too will fall, but someone catches you. It’s Fiaz, and behind him Seema and Leigh, pale as ghosts.