Counting Down with You(60)

Fatima sighs, resting her head on her hand. She seems uncomfortable tonight, continuously tugging on her heavy earrings. “What is there to get her? She already has everything she wants.”

I grimace. She’s not wrong.

Sana is every stereotypical brown parent’s dream come true. Since she was little, she’s always excitedly gone on and on about how she wants to be a doctor.

Now, a freshman in college, she’s actually on that path.

Admittedly, it doesn’t hurt that she’s fair-skinned, beautiful, and an only child. She plays by all her parents’ rules without complaint, and in return they dote on her endlessly.

I can’t imagine a life abiding by my parents’ standards, but Sana is obviously more than happy to do it. I guess it helps that most of her goals and views align with theirs, unlike the rest of us.

Out of respect and slight fear for myself, I avoid her outside of niceties. A lot of our relatives have suffered the consequences of befriending her; notably, my cousin Nabila, who confided in Sana that she was bisexual.

Sana went to Nabila’s parents and outed her. To this day, I’m still horrified Sana valued her parents’ rules over her cousin’s safety.

Nabila’s parents threw her out of the house—it’s rare for queer people in our community to be accepted with open arms, since it’s still illegal in Bangladesh—and none of us have heard from her since.

Or if we have, we don’t talk about it. It’s almost taboo to bring up her name.

It’s frustrating not being able to do more for Nabila. I’ve seen support groups for Bangladeshi queer youth on social media before, so it’s comforting to know that there is a safe space within our community, but it sucks that we can’t always count on our parents to be a part of it.

I just wish we could all live our lives in peace, without these expectations that seem to dictate our every breath.

When everything went down with Nabila, I reached out over Instagram almost immediately afterward. She told me not to worry and that she’d moved in with her best friend. From her posts on her private social media accounts, she seems almost happier nowadays. But I don’t know if I can rely on social media for the whole truth. She’s definitely safer, but I can only hope she’s happier.

I don’t know if I would be.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I wish everything didn’t have to be so... I wish a lot of things. I know my parents aren’t bad people, and I know they want the best for me, but I’m almost certain their definition of best isn’t the same as mine.

My dad leans too much into my mother. I think it’s easier for him that way. But it certainly isn’t easy for me—I have to bear the consequences of having two parents who look down on me whenever I take one wrong step.

It’s hard, because I know they love me somewhere deep down. I know they’re not acting maliciously. And yet it doesn’t change the fact that their beliefs don’t always align with my own. It doesn’t change the fact that I have to often sit here and pretend to be someone I’m not. I wish they were more like Dadu or my other relatives, who accept and support their kids no matter what. I know it doesn’t have to be like this, so why is it?

I glance across the restaurant to where Sana is sitting on a fake throne, smiling brightly as an auntie talks to her. I wonder if she regrets what she did to Nabila. I can’t imagine living with that weight.

Maybe it’s not even a weight to her. Maybe she genuinely thinks she did the right thing.

That’s somehow even more horrifying.

“We got her a gift card in the end. What did you get Sana?” Fatima asks, poking my arm, bringing me back to the conversation.

I shrug, trying to push away any remaining dark thoughts. “Dadu and I picked out some perfume. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“That’s a safe present,” Fatima says. “Where is Dadu anyway?”

I glance around and catch Samir’s gaze briefly as he goofs around with some of our cousins. He wiggles his brows, and I roll my eyes, ignoring him in favor of seeking out a white saree. I finally spot Dadu near the drinks. “Over there,” I say, inclining my head with a fond smile.

Dadu has been making her rounds, and my youngest cousins follow her around like little ducklings. Any time she sits down, people trip over themselves to grab the seat next to her.

“Oh.” Fatima’s shoulders slump. “I needed to talk to her about...never mind.”

My brows knit. Fatima is usually my polar opposite—outspoken and confident. Seeing her despondent feels wrong.

“Can I help?” I ask.

Fatima’s mouth quirks. “I don’t think so, Myra. But thank you.”

“Let me know, though,” I say, playing with the gold churi on my wrists. “Even if it’s just to talk about whatever’s bothering you, I’m here.”

“I know,” Fatima says, smiling before her expression shifts. “Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh God, that’s not a good sign,” I say, grimacing. “All right, hit me with it. What did I do wrong?”

Fatima shakes her head and bumps shoulders with mine. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Relax. I was just curious—there was a boy on your Instagram the other day...are you finally breaking away from your goody-two-shoes reputation?”