“Of course,” Keith said. “I’m sure your husband is eager to have you back.”

“Yes, we have a family wedding to attend,” she said. “But that’s not the main reason.”

Keith looked at her with curiosity. He’d never felt like he’d truly gotten to know this woman for himself. Jaya had told him many stories about her mother’s talent as a dancer, her skills as a hostess, how rigorously she managed their childhoods. But with only a handful of visits over the past two decades, Keith didn’t feel as though he knew her beyond the immaculate facade she presented. Now, she spoke plainly.

“My daughter is a very strong woman,” she said, and Keith nodded in agreement. “She has the internal fortitude to get through this. But she will not discover that strength so long as I am here. It will be difficult”—her voice caught, and she cleared her throat—“to leave her like this, but I think it is best. She will learn to get back on her feet.”

“Is she . . . talking to you . . . at all?” Keith was stumbling over his words.

“She seems to be finding some solace in her prayers,” Jaya’s mother said. “She sits there for an hour sometimes or more, and she seems calmer afterwards.”

Keith glanced through the kitchen doorway to the makeshift temple his mother-in-law had set up in their dining room. He’d assumed she had brought it for herself, to stand in for the small alcove they had in their flat in Delhi, but if Jaya was finding some peace that way, he was relieved. He felt a surge of emotion swelling inside him. “She . . . we’ve been lucky to have you all this time. I don’t know how to thank you.”

She waved away his comment. Keith could hear the echo of Jaya’s voice in his mind, explaining that you don’t thank in Indian families; you just do. Help is given, without being asked for. He felt it now, the unwavering foundation of her support, holding him up, the way he had felt when wrapped in his father’s strong embrace after Prem’s memorial service. He hadn’t relied on his parents for anything—financial or emotional—since he’d left home twenty-five years earlier. But he’d needed his father that day to help him stand upright.

“Jaya will find her way,” she said. “You must look after yourself too.” She peered at him. “And Karina. She acts strong, but she’s still a child.”

* * *

After Jaya’s mother left, Keith hoped their lives would regain some normalcy. He was back to a regular schedule at work, and Karina had started high school, where she could ride her bike and buy her lunch in the cafeteria. But Jaya said she wasn’t ready to go back to work yet. He worried about her, alone at home. Some days, when he came back, the house and kitchen looked just as they had when he’d left in the morning. Up in the bedroom, he found open sleeves of crackers and empty cartons of yogurt on her nightstand. Jaya was in the shower with the bathroom door locked. He suspected she stayed in bed all day, getting out only when she heard the garage door open.