Kavita glances at the photo. It is a baby picture of Sunil. He is dressed in a cloth diaper and lying on his stomach on a maroon paisley comforter. His mouth is wide open in a toothless smile. He has a full head of black hair. A youthful version of her father—slimmer and smooth-skinned—is sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, his giant hand resting on Sunil’s back. A look of gentle love softens her father’s eyes as he gazes at his son, his sweet boy.

Anchor pulls. She diverts her eyes to the dusty rose carpet. “How old is he in this picture?”

“Maybe six months or so. Back then, I never dreamed something like this was even possible. How could my sweet boy grow up to be so troubled?”

“I don’t know.”

“When we first moved here, I felt depressed for a long time. We were far from home, far from our families and friends. Your mommy and I got along better back then. I guess we had no other choice. I remember being scared of everything. Not speaking the language well enough. Getting pulled over by the police. Not being able to pay our bills. Somehow, even after we became landed immigrants, I still felt like we could get kicked out and sent back to India.”

Despite never having to apply in order to stay in Canada, Kavita has often felt a similar insecurity, as if belonging depended on how small she could make herself, how accommodating, how obedient. But wasn’t this inherited self-doubt part of every first generation’s experience? Her father couldn’t blame himself for that.

“All I ever wanted to do was provide some safety and security for all of you,” he continues. “My own father died when I was very young, before I started going to school. I saw how my mother suffered as a widow. I was always scared, even as a child, because we had to depend on the kindness of others, and they were not always as kind as they should have been. I wanted to give you all the good things in life. But in the end, I think the only thing I passed on was my fear.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he got it from me. The nervousness. The sadness. The worrying all the time about every little thing and every big thing. They say children are like little sponges. I should have done a better job of protecting him, of sheltering him from my worries, but I think he soaked them up and never squeezed them out.” A beat. “I am to blame.”

“No, Dad,” she reassures him. “You’re not. It’s no one’s fault.”

“Look at this picture!” He lifts up the album close to her face. She turns away. “Look at how happy he is! Look how perfect!”

“Dad, please,” she says. “Put it down.”