“Everyone else at school does their own thing on the weekends. I just want to spend my time the way I want,” Karina said. “And yes, earn some money—”

“You know we’ll give you spending money for whatever you need,” Jaya interjected.

“That’s not the point!” Karina banged her spade onto the ground so hard it bounced some feet away and landed near a shrub.

Jaya looked away from the anger manifesting in her daughter, dug her gloved hands deep into the bag of potting soil and heaped it out in front of her. Keith felt differently about this. He thought it was good for kids to have a job, to learn responsibility and the value of a dollar. Perhaps this was another aspect of American culture that she just didn’t comprehend. “I’ll talk to your father about it, okay?”

Karina got up to retrieve the spade and returned to stabbing it in the ground, spraying soil all around her. Jaya reached for the tray of dusty millers and began wobbling one of them out of its sheath. They had started planting flowers on Karina’s birthday as a special ritual years ago, a way for Jaya to share something with her daughter, as she had shared dance with her own mother. Jaya had studied the Bharatnatyam form of classical dance from the time she was five years old, right up until she left for university. It was her mother’s way of ensuring she stayed deeply tied to Indian culture no matter where they lived. When they were in Delhi, Jaya studied with a leading teacher, but abroad, Jaya was taught by her mother, herself a dancer.

In every home in every country where Jaya’s family had lived, there hung a series of five identically framed photos of her mother standing in full costume, in various dance poses: making a flute with her hands, her long fingers forming a flower, and so on. Each time they moved to a new house, these photos were the first items to go up. The whole family participated in the ritual of seeking out the right spot for them when they arrived in Ireland, Portugal, Kuwait. Jaya came to rely on those pictures, a symbol of constancy in their ever-changing homes, a sign of her mother watching over her. Jaya used to survey those images of her mother, with dramatically flared eye makeup and elaborate silk costumes, and wonder if she would ever grow up to be as beautiful and graceful. She had loved sharing something special with her mother. Unlike Karina now, who was like the little bunny in the children’s storybook, always trying to run away from her.

“I’m not a baby anymore, Mom. I’m not a . . . kid like Prem. I can do things for myself. You don’t let me do anything. It’s not fair.” Karina stood up and dropped her spade to the ground. “I don’t even like this,” she muttered. “I hate gardening.” She shook her head and turned to walk into the house.