When she’s finished, she pats me on the head like I’m a pet.

“You know, when I told your Nanu and Nana about me and your Abbu I didn’t understand why they were so angry. He had such great prospects in front of him. So did I. It made no sense. Later, I realized that I was supposed to have lied about it, that that would have made it better. If I had pretended I had never spoken to him before, never known him, that he was a stranger who I liked the look of and nothing more, then nobody would have spoken about us in hushed whispers like we were shameful. Amma and Abba would have been able to hold their heads up high, because I would have made the right choices.”

“You said you regret what happened. You feel ashamed.” That conversation is imprinted onto my mind and I’m not sure if I can ever forget it.

“I did. I do. I …” She trails off. “At the time, I didn’t understand. I thought I was supposed to be honest with my parents. I thought I had made all of the right choices, so why was I being punished for one wrong thing? I was angry, you know. At the wedding, wearing my red saree and mehndi and jewelry, I couldn’t be happy because I kept looking out at the sea of faces and thinking of what they were probably saying about me. I didn’t want you to go through that, Nishat.”

I push back the strands of my hair and blink up at her. I can’t wrap my head around her words.

“But that’s how you’ve been feeling anyway, isn’t it?”

I nod, feeling a lump rising in my throat.

“I was just trying to understand. I don’t … understand it, Nishat. I’ve never met someone like that before.” There’s a slight waver in her voice. “I thought … it was just something that happened here. Not to Bengali girls. Not to my daughter.”

“It’s not something that happens, Ammu.” I rub at the tears running down my cheeks. “It’s something that I am.”

“I know.” She reaches out, wrapping her arms around me. “I know.”

When Ammu and I pull away, we’re both rubbing at our eyes. Even Abbu has put down his book and has red-rimmed eyes—like he’s been not-so-secretly crying too. He rubs at his nose when he catches me looking, like he’s embarrassed that I’ve seen him.

“Hey …” Priti’s voice jolts us all out of our teary emotions. She’s standing in the doorway to the room, taking us all in with wide eyes. “Um … what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Ammu sniffles once, rubs away the last of her tears and settles into position in her bed again. “Come here, let me put oil in your hair.”