Tahera came into my life barely a week ago, joining the two other women already awaiting my arrival in San Francisco: Seema, my mother, and Nafeesa, my grandmother, who came all the way from Chennai, India, to be by her daughter’s side, defying her husband Naeemullah’s wishes. Tahera flew in from Irvine, Texas, leaving behind her husband, Ismail, and her son and daughter, Arshad and Amina, to fend for themselves. The three women are gathering together for the first time in more than fifteen years.

Here is Tahera, last Thursday evening, waiting at the baggage carousel at San Francisco International Airport. She stands a little distance away from the grating steel plates, while passengers mill around the circling luggage. Her black hijab is pulled low over her forehead, pinned at the neck, framing her face. She has tucked away escaping strands of hair. Her jilbab is a muted indigo, its soft folds falling to her feet, the fraying hem trailing on the floor. Only the tips of her dull black shoes can be seen.

She’s told her mother she’ll take a cab to Seema’s apartment; they’re not to bother coming to the airport to pick her up. So the sight of Seema and Nafeesa walking toward the carousel startles her. Instinctively she shrinks back, pressing herself against a nearby pillar. Then, hoping they haven’t seen her yet, she attempts to lose herself in a clump of passengers by the conveyor belt, feigning preoccupation in identifying her luggage so she can buy herself a few extra minutes in which to ready a smile and a greeting. The tap on her shoulder comes quicker than she expected. Nafeesa stands behind her, smiling. A smile—saintly tired—plays on Seema’s lips too, her arm draped proprietorially across Nafeesa’s shoulders.

“I knew it,” Tahera says, throwing herself at her mother, forestalling thought with action. “Ammi, I knew you’d come even though I told you not to. You shouldn’t have.”

Her mother feels pencil thin in her embrace. She’s reminded of the stick figures in her daughter Amina’s drawings. Her arms can encircle Nafeesa, and still there is more arm to go round. She holds her mother in her embrace longer than she needs to.

She’s aware of Seema’s impatience. Seema shifts from one foot to another, waiting her turn, but Tahera ignores her. “Let me see how you look,” she says instead to her mother, holding Nafeesa away from her.

Nafeesa frees the edge of her saree from under her sweater and raises it to her face, dabbing at the corners of her eyes, now sparkling with unshed tears.

“Still my sweet, beautiful Ammi,” Tahera says.