She never told Mom and Dad about any of it. There was no need. They had already been through bigger, tougher things. She was supposed to be the one who made them proud and set an example for her sister and brother. When Mom used to go on her solitary, late-night drives, Suhani gave Natasha and Anuj bubble baths, packed their lunches for the next day, and taught them how to properly eat rotli and shaak, by ripping off a piece of rotli and using it to scoop up the vegetables. When Suhani scored below average on her PSAT, Mom shook her head with disappointment and said, “Suhani, this is unacceptable. You have to focus if you really want to make something of yourself.” Mom then muttered something about the importance of “making enough of your own money one day” and “doing everything to be taken as seriously as a man” and “never forgetting we have to prove we belong in this country.”

Suhani only realizes now that she never told Zack about any of this, either. She scrolls back to the last text he sent her two days ago:

You always have the right to your privacy. It just feels like there’s constantly been stuff you don’t tell me, whether it’s big or not. You don’t trust me to be able to be there for you.

Maybe he’s right. Is it possible that she used to keep things from her parents for the sake of self-sufficiency, and now she doesn’t even know how to be vulnerable with her husband?

When she opens her room door, she can’t hear anyone. Her parents and brother have retreated to their own corners of the house. She puts the yearbook back in its spot, grabs her phone, and tiptoes down the stairs.

To her surprise, Mom’s whispering on the phone. “Now, you remember what I said: tell his mother you won’t take her nonsense anymore! Yes, it was nice to meet you, too! Maybe I’ll see you next time I’m in line at Target.”

Suhani suppresses a laugh. Mom makes friends wherever she goes. Both she and Natasha do. People turn to them whenever they enter a room. People love them. People rarely ever have to deal with their difficult parts.

“I was wondering where you were, beta.” Mom’s fingertips are covered in flour. She dips them into a glass container that’s stuffed with a massive ball of dough.

No matter how old Suhani is, whenever she thinks of Mom, this exact image comes to mind: Mom shaping a piece of dough into a sphere and using the wooden rolling pin to flatten it into a perfectly round rotli.

“Why are you cooking this late? I thought you’d be getting ready for bed by now.”