Bina repeats her last question in Gujarati, a habit she’s had since moving to America. Every time a question holds significant emotional weight, she repeats it in Gujarati.

Natasha stares at the table. With her free hand, she traces the swirly wood patterns. Her nails are chipped with black polish. Bina finds comfort in this, her daughter’s nails looking the way they always do, done and undone.

“I guess, yeah.” Natasha looks up at Bina. Her eyes are moist. “I’m so sorry you went through that, Mommy.”

Mommy. Natasha hasn’t called her that in years. Bina feels herself choke on tears.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m fine. I just hate that you haven’t been . . . for so long. And were dealing with it alone.”

Natasha slumps in the stiff wooden chair. “Being here has helped me realize that I’ve always felt bad about not being happy . . . because you and Dad went through so much worse.”

Bina sighs. Just the other day, Mira had brought up that Pooja mentioned something about being depressed. I had asked her, what do you have to be depressed about? Mira scoffed. All of us who had to deal with everything when we were coming to this country, we have the right to be depressed.

Now Bina wonders how many times she and her friends made those types of comments and what the impact has been over the years. Instead of encouraging growth or resilience, did it only result in their kids keeping things from them?

Natasha nods. “I felt guilty about being so low when you and Dad have given us everything. And then I’d hate myself on top of that, then get frustrated for feeling all these different things. It’s been that way my whole life, this downward spiral that I can fall into at any second. Dr. Chan helped me realize that my thoughts have negative patterns. She thinks I need cognitive behavioral therapy to help with my disruptive thoughts.”

“I see,” Bina says, trying to find the right boundary between being fully supportive and giving her honest opinion, a boundary she’s struggled with when communicating with her daughters throughout their lives. She wants to be the type of mother who can say, Yes, do whatever you think is best, I’m here for you. But she’s conflicted. One part of her is worried that Natasha’s focusing on her thoughts too much may not be helpful, but then another part of her is proud of her daughter for taking the time to understand herself.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been in a place like this and I had no idea,” Natasha says. “I don’t think it’s really going to sink in and feel real. I just can’t picture any of it when I try.”

“Don’t try,” Bina says. “What’s important is that we focus on you.”