“So . . . I was telling Mom you should be able to cook for yourself and finish other chores that she’s been doing forever. Now that it’s just both of you at home, things should be split more equally.”

She waits for Dad to argue or explain why this setup has always worked.

But to her surprise, Dad puts down his food and says, “I agree.”

“You do?” Suhani asks.

“Of course. Why do you think I encouraged her to start these meetings? I know she should be spending her time doing different things. And the events she’s always planned were great, but even with those, she became the go-to cook and coordinator. She needs something that challenges her, helps her connect with people the way she was always meant to and make a bigger impact. I want that for her. I’ve always wanted that for her.”

“Does she know that? Have you told her?” Suhani asks as she realizes that sometimes it’s the words people don’t say that can shape a relationship, a life.

“I always assumed she knew but clearly, I was wrong.” He takes a glass and fills it with ice and water from the fridge, which is covered in magnets that have different drug names: Prozac, Xanax, Lexapro. “I was convinced I’d be different—the Indian husband who actually made sure his wife had as big of an identity outside the home as he did. But then we had more kids and I got so wrapped up in my own work and we were surrounded by people who divided things in a more traditional way. I guess at some point both she and I surrendered to that.”

He turns to her, his eyes heavy with something Suhani can’t pinpoint. Regret? Sadness? “Your mom had to sacrifice a lot for me, for all of us. She couldn’t go back to the life she had planned for herself. And I think that eventually, managing all this”—he points to the house—“became her way to prove herself.”

Suhani always thought of Mom’s endless daily tasks as a function of the patriarchy. But maybe by keeping their house in order, Mom could ensure her regrets were organized and manageable. Still, she can’t decide if this is a healthy coping mechanism or a sign that underneath the cleaning and folding and pleasing, her mother is depressed.

And she always assumed Dad was content being absentminded about anything that happened at home. Instead of seeing her parents clearly, she wonders if it’s her default to view them through a lens that’s clouded with her own bias. Maybe with family, the past is always too intertwined with the present.

“Isn’t it funny how we get used to things so easily?” Dad says. “I forget sometimes that I went to medical school for her and, of course, for our future children.”