The basement is lively with movement and chatter, which goes against the assumptions she has about bereavement groups. Aren’t these meetings supposed to be sombre affairs filled with even more sombre people? She shoves her hands into her jean jacket, fumbles for Sunil’s rakhi, and rubs it for comfort.

She hears voices approaching her from behind. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees a middle-aged couple slowing plodding down the stairs. She steps to one side.

“Sorry,” says the man as they pass. The woman grins briefly at the tiled floor. Kavita follows their path to the table. The granola guy welcomes them with a broad smile. They chat for a bit and then he hands them each a paper to fill out. While they are hunched over, filling out forms, the granola guy keeps talking, pointing to different parts of the room. Kavita notices there are snacks laid out and a table of handouts. Lots of Kleenex. The couple stick the nametags onto their jackets and move somewhere beyond her sightline. It looks easy enough. But she still isn’t sure if she’s ready.

Just then, the granola guy looks right at her. He offers her the same wide smile her offered the couple and raises one hand in a wave.

“Hey,” he mouths. He motions with his hand. “Come in.”

Her insides seize. Her face must have too, because the granola guy’s smile drops, as though he knows she is about to bolt back up the stairs. His dark eyes ask her to stay.

But she can’t.

She sprints back up the two flights of stairs, nearly tripping on the last step, but finds her balance, and doesn’t stop until she’s outside in the cold night, panting visible breath, under a yellow dome of light. She stands off to one side to catch her breath. A family of three—a mother, father, and teenage daughter—approach the entrance from the parking lot. She avoids their gaze, although she can feel their eyes reaching for her, and senses they want to share a smile, a moment of understanding between the bereft. She keeps her eyes fixed on the lazy traffic rolling past the church.

Soon she is alone. Her shoulders relax a little. A sense of defeat drags her gaze to the cement. Coming here was a mistake. It was foolish to think she would have anything in common with these people. How could she tell them how badly she handled things with Sunil? If they found out, they would probably blame her for his death too. She has met the soft eyes of other mourners, and it is obvious that they can’t help her, because she isn’t like the rest of them. They haven’t done anything wrong.

Sadness barrels into her.

No, she isn’t like them at all.