Before I left home for college, Ma had taken me to the Anglo-Indian tailor in Kodai, Ms Bridget, whose workroom was part of a house she shared with her sisters. There were two mannequins in Valentinoesque lace outfits standing by the window and dated Vogue magazines stacked in a corner. For Kodai, it was impossibly glamorous. ‘Sturdy girl,’ Ms Bridget had said approvingly, as she took my measurements. She herself was a bird – thin-boned, blue-veined. ‘These will be just lovely on you,’ she promised.

Walking home, Ma pronounced, ‘Never married. The famous Wilson sisters. So beautiful when they were young. All spinsters. One of them went off to be the mistress of a Tamil film star in Madras and had a bastard child and all, but these three have always lived together.’

And now here was this box of Bridget Wilson’s clothes. All those pintucks and dropped waists. So many blouses and bubble skirts in shades of unflattering salmon. The purple jacket with padded shoulders I’d adored so much. Within months of living in America I had been forced to buy oversized jeans and T-shirts, but I kept these clothes out of loyalty, out of a misplaced sense of the glamour I expected college life to have.

‘I suppose you’d better throw them away,’ Ma said, sifting through the piles. ‘You were so excited about them when they were ready. And I was excited for you.’

‘I can’t bear to look at them now,’ I said. ‘It reminds me of everything I’ve lost.’

‘What have you ever lost? You know nothing about loss,’ Ma said, struggling to stand, using one hand to lever herself up.

It began to rain. The sound of water slapping against the windows, softly first, then with a vengeance. Ma fussed with her fingers, examining her hands as if all the golden light that had just been in the room had slipped through them.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing. I’m tired.’

‘Let’s go, then,’ I said, leading her towards the staircase. I watched her body negotiate the stairs, step by step, shoulders slumped as though she were cold. My fingers gripping either side of her neck.

Downstairs, the sitting room looked somnolent, hushed. Ma settled herself in the La-Z-Boy, legs spread, ungainly. ‘Bring me something to eat please, kanna.’

I made chilli-cheese toasts and tea and brought it out on a tray. We sat together and watched the day grow dark. ‘It’s the most difficult thing to be a mother,’ Ma said, chewing sloppily on the toast. ‘You’re right to resist if it isn’t what you want.’

‘I feel bad for Blake. This is one of those things that could divide us.’

‘There are always things waiting to divide a marriage.’

‘Do you ever miss Papi?’

‘It’s really not important.’

‘How can you say that?’