“I missed you too, Daddy.” It slipped out by accident, Daddy. She couldn’t remember ever calling him that, not even when she was little. He’d always been “Dad.” Besides, she was almost eleven now, way too old for “Daddy.”

His attention was elsewhere. “Take a look,” he said.

A tall, red building the color of clay stood before them. Vines of white flowers twisted like serpents. It was nice, though nothing so impressive to cut their time in Delhi short.

He touched her chin. “Not this, here. See that? Through there?” He squatted, slid her on his knee. His arm extended in a straight line, like the needle of a compass, guiding her sight through the building’s opening.

A castle the color of a cloud shone brightly in the distance. A king’s rounded crown sat on top. Mama had taken her to Disneyland last year. They had seen Cinderella’s castle, the turrets, the blue trim, the gold. This was different. Better, even.

“What is it?” Shan asked.

“The Taj Mahal. The Emperor Shah Jahan built it for his wife, Queen Mumtaz, after she died,” he said. “It’s been here for four hundred years. Can you imagine?”

He helped her back to her feet. “We have to leave our shoes here,” he said. “They aren’t allowed on the grounds.”

“We’re going there? To the castle?”

“To the Taj Mahal.” He slipped off her flip-flops, spit on his hand, rubbed the dirt off the side of one of her feet. His thumb paused at a faint line. “I remember when you got this scar,” he said. “It was just after your third birthday. You were wearing your green overalls. Your tricycle capsized on the uneven sidewalk in front of our apartment.”

Her tricycle had a red, shiny frame, a bell strapped to the left handlebar. Or maybe it was the right. Silver streamers swooshed in the breeze, caught the sunlight. She loved that bike. When they moved last year to a new apartment, her mother gave it to a neighbor.

He looked up at her tenderly. A breeze flitted through his hair. A few faint lines kissed the outer corners of his eyes. She hadn’t noticed them before.

“I was the one who found you upside down,” he continued. “I lifted and carried you inside. You were so brave. You didn’t shed a single tear, not even when the doctor stitched you up in the emergency room. Do you remember?”

His dark eyes searched her face for a hint of recognition. She felt sorry for him, clinging to his role in the rescue, the fear she now understood must have seized him. He wasn’t seeking confirmation of her memory, but an understanding of how much he loved her. Adults did this sometimes.