“You really shouldn’t have worn that hoodie, Leila.” She shook her head. “Can you at least fix that hair on your head?” She reached over to push the hair out of my face. “Try and make yourself look somewhat presentable.”

I dodged her reach and quickened my pace. If I look like such a troll, why is she insisting that I come in? I haven’t shampooed in two days; what does she expect my hair to look like? I thought, trying to smooth out the frizz in the few seconds I had right after ringing the bell. When the door opened, I smiled sweetly. Now that we were in another person’s presence, my mother would finally stop fussing over me.

As Yasmeen aunty led us through the marble-tiled foyer into the sitting room, I began salivating at the sight of pistachios, dates, fruits, tea biscuits, and other desserts piled on the coffee table. This seemed quite elaborate for a lunch—even for Yasmeen aunty—but who was I to object to extravagance? I beamed as she handed me a gold-rimmed plate.

“Help yourself, Leila,” she said, smiling warmly. “You must be starving; look how thin you are!” She grabbed my waist.

I was suddenly glad I’d come in. Ignoring the daggers of death my mother kept shooting at me from the corners of her eyes, I quickly filled my plate with as many goodies as I could fit. Years of being dragged to social gatherings as a child had taught me it was poor etiquette to load up my plate at someone else’s house. It was much more polite to take a small sampling of each item so as not to waste anything. But as soon as I popped a laddu, a ball-shaped sweet made entirely of butter, coconut, and sugar, into my mouth, all rules of etiquette flew out the window. I greedily stacked four more laddus onto the pile of sweets on my plate, paying absolutely no heed to my mother’s embarrassed scowl. Besides, she was the one who’d insisted I come in. I was simply making the best of the situation.

I stuffed another ball of sugary heaven into my mouth and carried my plate of new friends into the living room. My mood lifted: I settled comfortably into the sofa next to my mother, chomping blissfully.

“Beta, come sit,” Yasmeen aunty called out from the couch. Suddenly, a man a few years my senior walked into the room, nodding shyly at the three of us. “This is Zain, my eldest son. He is in town this week for a conference.” Yasmeen aunty motioned him over. “Beta, why don’t you come join us for lunch?” She cleared her throat and glanced at my mother with a suggestive smile.

The laddu suddenly hardened in my mouth. I had been ambushed: This whole thing was a setup! The fancy spread. All the desserts. How could I have so foolishly walked into their trap?

“Sure, Ammi,” Zain said, taking a seat.

How could my mother do this? I glowered at her. She was just sitting there casually eating a grape, pretending that she had nothing to do with this. This was a new level of betrayal even for her. I could feel the heat rising in my face. I turned toward the front door, calculating how long it would take to get from the couch to the car, but an escape was out of the question. It was too late. My anger festering, the only thing I could do was stay put and endure the impending humiliation.