Chandani was a widow, had lost her husband the year before, right before leaving New Jersey and settling in Atlanta. Shan would see her strolling through the neighborhood alone. Alone, again, watering her flowers, checking her mail. Shan couldn’t recall a single visitor to Chandani’s house. She felt sorry for her, and her pity gave her the grace she needed to be generous with her at the same moment Shan’s own life had unraveled. “Can I offer you something to drink?” she said.

Her neighbor nodded, hopped off the swing, produced a smirk of victory.

Inside, Chandani scanned the surfaces of the tables, the walls, the floor, passed judgment, Shan assumed, on layers of dust, the absence of any wall décor, the several pairs of shoes haphazardly tossed on the floor—their less than stellar housekeeping. In the kitchen, Shan opened the fridge, brought out a pitcher, poured lemonade in a tall Atlanta Falcons glass for her nosey neighbor.

“Your skin is so splotchy and uneven. Why is it like that?” she asked, taking the drink. “I thought you were Indian. We don’t have skin like that.”

This was the first in a series of questions Chandani tortured her with upon each of their meetings. Each time, Shan gave the same answers. My father was Indian. My mother was white, so I’m only half, even though I’m dark skinned. No, I don’t speak any Indian languages. No, my father didn’t grow up in India. He was born and raised in London but moved to India when I was five, died when I was eleven. My mother died a few years ago. Yes, my parents divorced. Yes, I went to India once as a child, a long time ago, haven’t been back since, don’t know of any family there. Chandani would gasp at each of these revelations, as if she couldn’t believe that such a tragic family existed.

Shan was in no mood to engage in this kind of exchange again. Not today. “I’ve been forgetting to wear sunscreen while planting bulbs. The sun’s been taking a toll on my face.”

Chandani shook her head. “You should plant bulbs in the evening.” She set the glass down on the table, looked over the room.

Shan braced herself. Chandani’s silences usually preceded pointed snark.

“How come you and Max don’t have children?” she asked. “You should make it a priority. You’re not young anymore.”

The words were a knife to Shan’s gut. She blinked away the tears forming in her eyes. Of all the things her neighbor could have said in that moment! But Chandani had no idea about her pregnancy, that her marriage had fallen apart. The remark, though extremely hurtful, was not made with ill will.