“Like when we were kids, no?” Seema says.

Tahera concurs warily, because she has contrived to take hold of Nafeesa’s right hand. As girls they’d squabble over who got to walk on their mother’s right, settling the matter by taking turns the way out and back. But Seema has forgotten this preoccupation from their childhood, and Tahera relaxes, gripping her mother’s hand, a hard-won, justifiable trophy.

What a picture they make! Tahera covered hair to foot, black gown billowing in the breeze; Seema rotund in a tight ochre top and flowing brown pants; and sandwiched between them, Nafeesa’s slight figure in a green saree and white sneakers, pink sweater and blue shawl, a combination completely deficient in color coordination. The sisters burst into laughter on catching sight of their reflection in a storefront window.

“What?” Nafeesa says, baffled by their sudden mirth, but they don’t stop laughing. And though Nafeesa knows she’s in some way involved in their merriment, perhaps even the target, she is secretly delighted.

Some tension is eased, some old intimacy begins to take hold as they stroll through the Mission’s sun-drenched streets, past multicolored murals and buildings painted orange and purple and cyan, past grocery stores and florists exhibiting brilliantly hued wares on sun-splattered pavements. An almost natural chitchat springs up among them, Seema sharing lively anecdotes about the landmarks they pass, and Nafeesa and Tahera listening and pointing and inquiring with an almost natural enthusiasm.

They’re walking slowly—Seema slower than her pregnancy dictates, keeping an eye on her mother for signs of exhaustion. Before long they find themselves crossing Market Street and are confronted with the rolling hills of Lower Haight.

“Shall we turn back?” Seema asks.

Nafeesa denies fatigue, wanting to prolong the truce the outing seems to have fostered. They continue, stopping at each intersection to pick the direction with the easiest incline. Even so, her breathing soon grows ragged, and she has to remind herself not to grip her daughters’ hands so tightly every time she feels the need to take an extra deep breath. When she finally agrees to take a break, her daughters exchange glances of relief.

They rest on a bench in a bus stop for a brief moment before a store selling baby apparel across the street catches Nafeesa’s eye. Inside, she flits from shelf to shelf, exclaiming over blankets and sweaters, socks and shoes, despite Seema’s protests that the baby has all the clothes he needs. Nafeesa’s taken in by a particularly soft blanket, sky blue and embroidered with a smiling moon and many winking stars. She has brought clothes for me from India but nothing she thinks will last me beyond the first few months. Alas, she has left her purse behind in Seema’s apartment. She strokes the blanket, reluctant to give it up.

“I have baby blankets already,” Seema says.

“I’ll get it,” Tahera says. “I didn’t get anything for the baby yet.” She takes the blanket from Nafeesa, glad to make up for her behavior that morning. She’s shocked at its price—she’d never have bought anything as expensive for Amina or Arshad. “What else would you like, Ammi?”