I looked over at Zain to find him peering in my direction. He was seated on the opposite end of the couch, our mothers wedged in between us like an awkward tikka roll. Is he in on this too? He was dressed a lot nicer than I was, in pleated beige chinos and a light-blue polo shirt. I noticed that his hair had been neatly combed back and his face was freshly shaven. Was I the only one who didn’t know this was a date? I pried my gaze away from his curious eyes and nervously adjusted the zipper on my hoodie, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

“So, Zain, beta, I hear you are a chiropractor?” my mother began as she stirred a cube of sugar into her chai. She placed the spoon on the edge of the saucer and lifted her cup. “How long have you been practicing?”

“He’s been working for seven years now at his own clinic in Houston,” Yasmeen aunty responded, patting Zain on the knee. “We are very proud of him.” She smiled as the steam from her teacup danced gracefully across her face.

“Very nice,” my mother said, turning toward me. “Isn’t that nice, Leila?” I nodded stiffly and forced a weak smile.

“Zain is thinking about opening up another clinic in Los Angeles, aren’t you, beta?” Zain nodded, fiddling with his hands. “It will be so nice to have him nearby again,” Yasmeen aunty exclaimed. Zain gave his mother a thin-lipped smile before glancing in my direction. I turned away.

“Oh, yes. That will be very nice,” my mother responded, taking a sip. “You know, we are very proud of our Leila too,” she continued after a moment. “She is an English professor.”

“Teacher, Ammi,” I muttered under my breath.

“Huh?” My mother looked at me, confused.

“I’m a teacher, Ammi; not a professor,” I corrected her. My face flushed a deep crimson.

“Yes, yes, we know, Leila,” she said impatiently. She turned back toward the other end of the couch, her back to me. I sank into the plush cushions and swallowed the last bite of laddu. It tasted like wet car keys as it passed down my throat.

“She molds the minds of the youth,” my mother went on. “Shaping the next generation of thinkers. Our future is in her hands . . .” Every word out of her mouth made my skin crawl. Why can’t she just stop talking? Indian mothers were known to exaggerate the accomplishments of their children, but this was next-level deception. Yes, I worked with teens, and at times it was honorable and offered small rewards. But the majority of my days were spent explaining why “YOLO” was not a universal theme, trying not to get caught in the cross fire of hormone-related drama, and convincing a bunch of apathetic fifteen-year-olds that writing was more than just texting. On most days, I was simply making sure their young brains weren’t rotting rather than attempting to “mold” them.