She rose, walked back through the café between cramped tables and chairs. The tails of her trench coat blew back behind her like a train. She opened the door, paused in the doorway, glanced back once more at Shan, before stepping outside.

An image flashed through Shan’s mind from the very same month: ten-year-old Shan exiting Deepa’s London apartment with her father, the awkward hug she shared with her grandmother in the dim light of the hallway, her gaze, which held something. Sadness? Pain? Confusion? Regret? She couldn’t put her finger on it.

The poem, “Child,” was about her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Atlanta

May 10, 2017

When Chandani went in for her standard manicure, Margaret, her usual manicurist, flattered her about the shape of her fingers, the strength of her nails, tried coaxing her into forking over twelve extra dollars for the French tips. Chandani was inclined to get her regular trim and shape, either her Red Raven or Pale Peach polish (she alternated between the two), but something had been begun brewing inside of Chandani. She wanted something more.

She had cried for days after watching Harjeet’s video and rarely answered the door when Shan came by to check on her. At first, she was so angry with her husband for not sharing the truth about Simran’s death after he returned from Amritsar all those years ago. Then she was angry at Harjeet’s father, Akal, for his confession that sent Harjeet into a tailspin from which he could never recover.

But then Chandani thought more about Harjeet’s final, selfless act. He had shared his story with the world. He had given his voice to one of the darkest and most painful chapters of Partition. And he did so with such love, compassion, and honesty. His testimony was a gift. It was now a part of a permanent archive that would ensure that this history was never forgotten. Her husband, as it turned out, was as brave as any of the long line of soldiers in his family. This fact made her swell with pride.

She finally opened the curtains again in her home. She took a long, hot bath. Peace, a peace she hadn’t known in so long, returned to her. Kush had sensed her metamorphosis over the phone.

“Mom, we’ve been wondering for almost twenty years why we couldn’t help Dad get better. I blamed him. You blamed yourself. But for him to live with this kind of agony for twenty years, and choose to stay with us for as long as he did, that’s the deepest kind of love, isn’t it? That’s true courage.”

Chandani smiled. She held out her hand, tilted her head. She would get the French tips. Might as well live a little. Margaret had told her, after all, that her fingers were made for French tips.