“She works at a factory, Baba. How can she go to work without her earrings? She’ll be so embarrassed.” Because the shame of your ears being bare was worse than the shame of not being able to make the month’s rent.

But still, I did my hair, put on the appropriate amount of makeup, wore my demure-albeit-black cocktail dress, and carried my brandless, too-large-for-a-cocktail-party handbag that held what I needed for tonight.

I took a moment adjusting the minimal jewelry that once belonged to my mother. I used to watch her get ready, when I was younger.

I’d stand near her doorway and be entranced by the way she’d dab on lipstick, the way she’d suck in her cheeks to dust on blush, the way she’d turn her head from side to side after she put on her jewelry.

“It’s not too much, is it?” she’d ask me, and I’d always shake my head. It was never too much. Nothing she did was enough, after all, to keep my father by her side.

It’s hard to ignore the catching feeling in my chest when I think about her sometimes, and I’ve been thinking about her nonstop since I got back. I guess that was the curse that came with holding on to this house—if I closed my eyes and allowed myself to float away, it was like she’d never left.

Grieving for your mother shrinks in value as you get older. Everyone acts like it’s the end of the world when you lose a parent as a child, and it certainly felt that way to me. But you lose the right to hold on to that grief as the years tick by. As losing a parent is viewed less like a tragedy and more like nature taking its course. Because holding on to stale sadness didn’t do anyone any favors. No one seems to understand that real loss never eases; we just become more adept at carrying a weight that settles deeper in our chests, smiling through it, pretending like we are totally fine whenever someone mentions them.

But once again, I had to tuck my mother away into a corner of my mind. I missed her, of course, but I wasn’t like her. I believed in fighting for what was mine.

I called a proper taxi to take me to the Fonsekas’, because taking a tuk tuk alone while dressed like this would be “asking for trouble.” It’s true I’d been away for a while, but I hadn’t forgotten the rules.

The itinerary on the website said that this was a simple gathering at home. Of course, I knew the Fonsekas weren’t capable of throwing something basic, but walking back into their home for the second time today, I wasn’t prepared for this—

The front lawn was enveloped in a large marquee that was not there when I left this morning. Every bush and tree was bedazzled in fairy lights. A stage with a band was set up at one end of the marquee, with a small bar at the other end. A large number of round tables with elegant crisp white tablecloths took up the space that was not designated for the dance floor, while taller cocktail tables dotted the garden outside the tent. All the tables held towering vases of pink flowers, and the heady scent made me feel a little dizzy. A separate, smaller marquee off to the side contained a decadent buffet, where I could see an impressive mix of Sri Lankan and Western food being served. There was a photo booth with props off to the other side, and a separate gin and tonic bar for handcrafted cocktails.