Seema aunty placed the packet in front of her while simultaneously popping a chum chum into her mouth. She spent the next ten minutes flipping her sticky fingers through each page of the packet, grunting every now and then. I had a difficult time interpreting her thoughts from her sounds, and the whole thing was making me very, very nervous. What if I answered something incorrectly? What if I forgot to mention the great hair? What if I didn’t list everything from those seven napkins? My mind swimming with what-ifs, I imagined this was how guests on the Maury show felt when they were just about to learn the results of a paternity test.

“So,” she said, finally pressing the packet closed. “You are looking for an intelligent, outgoing, adventurous, ambitious, emotionally mature partner”—she drew in a deep breath—“with a great sense of humor, movie star looks”—she raised her brows—“a balance of Indian and American values, and”—she paused and looked at my mother—“who comes from a good family?”

The corners of my mother’s lips instantly turned upward and she nodded with approval.

Seema aunty had intentionally left out the part where I wrote that I was not looking for a “traditional” husband. I wanted someone who was more evolved in his views of marriage; who did not consider a wife’s only role to be that of a domestic guru but who desired an equal partner in every sense of the word. She probably knew that my traditional Indian mother would not approve of those wants, so I appreciated that she left them out.

“Are you sure, Leila, this is what you want?” Seema aunty asked with a knowing look. I hesitated for a moment. I had a feeling she was inquiring about the parts she’d left out. But that was it. I was sure that was what I wanted. I nodded eagerly.

She pushed her bottom lip out and flipped her palms upward. “Okay. Let’s see what we can find.” She leaned down and pulled out the second drawer of her filing cabinet. It was full of manila folders just like the one she had given me.

“Are those all the applications from potential grooms?” I asked, glancing at my mother, whose eyes were wide with awe.

“Hmm.” Seema aunty ignored my question as she flipped through each folder. Every now and then she pulled one folder out—her left index finger keeping tabs—quickly skimmed through the packet inside, and then returned it to its place. My heart rose and fell synchronously. What if she actually has my perfect match in one of those folders? What if I wasted all this time looking around, and my Mr. Perfect is just waiting for me right here in this cabinet?

She pulled out folder after folder; the anticipation was making me giddy. My mother was sitting at the edge of her seat, her lips moving in silent prayer. All hope for my future lingered in Seema aunty’s sticky hands. This really could be it. My grueling search might actually be over.