“What do you mean you don’t want us to find any more rishtas for you?” cried my mother when I broke the news to her. “How else will you find a husband?” She clutched one hand to her heart and waved the other in the air. “Ya Allah! What will we do with a twenty-six-year-old unwed daughter? This is my life’s curse!”

I sighed and prepared myself for the drama I had known would inevitably follow the announcement of my decision.

“Look, Ammi. I met more than my share of potential grooms from your portfolio these last few weeks, but I’m going to need extensive therapy if I have to sit through any more of those horrible dinners.”

My mother shot a look of confusion across the table at my father. “Horrible dinners?” My father shrugged, his face mirroring the same uncertainty as my mother’s. “I thought the dinners all went exceptionally well, no?”

“I agree, jaan, they went very well.” He nodded in agreement. “In fact, the kheer was especially delicious last night with the Khans.”

“Oh, really, you thought so?” My mother switched off her hysteria as swiftly as she’d switched it on, suddenly beaming with pride. There was nothing she loved more than a food-related compliment. “You know, I added some condensed milk in there for a little extra sweetness,” she stated proudly, wobbling her head.

What is happening right now? I thought as I watched my parents discuss their mutual affinity for condensed milk. The only thing I could even remember about last night’s dinner was the enormously long, wiry black hair protruding from my potential groom’s fleshy left nostril—never mind the dessert. Now, if they had wanted to have a conversation about that monstrosity, I would have been on board, but, the last thing I wanted to do was discuss cooking techniques. “Are you even listening to me?” I finally interrupted with an exasperated sigh. “I’m talking about needing therapy and all you guys can talk about is the kheer?”

“Leila, beti, we are not ‘guys,’ we are your parents. Do not use this term with us,” my father said with impatience. “And tell us now, what exactly is your plan for finding a good boy, who fits all our requirements, without our help?”

“I don’t know, Abba. But maybe we could spend some time reevaluating how well your requirements match with mine to reach some sort of . . . compromise.” I stumbled over the final syllables as they hastily left my mouth. My parents stared at me with doubt etched across their faces. A reevaluation of any kind was definitely out of the question.

Who am I kidding? I thought miserably. My requirements, my wants, my tastes meant nothing to my parents. All this time, they simply pretended they didn’t know about my dating history because it was far easier than having to admit that I could actually have preferences of my own. Maybe I hadn’t found what I was looking for yet, but I had gone out with enough guys—desi and non-desi—to at least know what I didn’t want. If they would only be willing to hear my opinions, this process could go so much smoother. But as far as they were concerned, they already knew what was best for me and my future. I was just interfering. As frustrating as it was, I knew I had to play this smarter if I was going to convince them to let me do this on my own. I had to hit them with an angle they didn’t expect.