“So, are you going to tell Suhani and Anuj?” Natasha’s voice is crisp.

Bina nods.

“I don’t even know how to process this about you.” Natasha gazes into the distance, in the direction of the single large-screen television that all the patients have to share.

Bina sees the layers of questions behind Natasha’s words. She had the same ones when she made the shift from Ma being her mother to Ma being a human being, capable of having flaws and making mistakes like anyone else.

“I know, beta. It’s a lot to take in, especially out of the blue.” Bina sits back. There’s a chance that Natasha will tell Suhani and Anuj about this the second Bina leaves. Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll keep this between them.

But for now, Bina won’t focus on that. Her daughter wants her to sit here and be supportive. Such a simple wish. And she can ignore her own desires to share her doubts and fears about Natasha’s health. She can sit here, in this crowded dining hall, the sound of people in heated conversations around them.

“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Natasha’s voice wavers. She takes an empty foam cup and starts ripping it into tiny pieces. “I always gave you so much crap. And I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair.”

“No, no, beta.” Bina clutches Natasha’s small, dry hands in hers. “You didn’t know. And it’s your job to be a child. My child.”

She moves over to Natasha’s side of the table and pulls her daughter close to her, never wanting to let go.

Twenty-Eight

Deepak

Deepak slips under the comforter and lies on his side. The gold glow from Bina’s bedside light splashes onto his pillow.

He reaches across the bed and touches her long red nightgown. “You did the right thing.”

“What are you talking about?” She removes her black-framed reading glasses.

“Telling Natasha. We should have told all the kids years ago.”

“You’ve always said that,” Bina says, “but I just never saw the point. And, yes, I am glad I told her today, but now what? Now we are all supposed to go to this family therapy”—she does a back-and-forth waving motion with her hand—“and share our most personal things with a stranger? Have we really done so poorly as parents that we have to put ourselves through that?”

Deepak tucks his hand under his head and stares at the spinning ceiling fan. “I don’t understand how you see therapy the way you do when your husband and daughter do it for a living.”

But that’s not entirely true. In some ways, he does understand. Whether or not she wants to accept it, Bina is still her mother’s daughter. Being anything less than perfect to a stranger—even needing a stranger in the first place—just isn’t what she was raised to do.