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That was how I was expecting things to be with Kaavi and the Fonsekas.

I had hoped that it was all in my head. That I’d put them on some sort of pedestal because I’d missed them so much. That I had been looking at my past through glasses that were so rose-tinted that everything was just fluorescent pink at this point. But with Kaavi, it was the opposite. In our time apart, I’d withered away to less, and she’d blossomed to be more. More than I was and more than I ever could be.

I remembered the quiet girl who used to let me copy homework off her. The girl who was always so shy, who’d only show her true self to me. The girl who fell in love as easily as catching a cold, who needed rescuing, for whom I was more than happy to take the fall. But I couldn’t protect her anymore. There was someone more important to me now.

And underneath it all, the questions that itched and irritated and stung: Why did she tell me that her parents wanted me here? Was it just a ruse because she wanted me here? And if so, why?

I took out my phone and messaged Beth.

I saw her today. It was rough. I think I’m going to do it.



Her reply beeped back a few seconds later.

I’m so glad you’re finally doing what you have to do.





Thank goodness for Beth. She’s been such a rock to me. Keeping me steady. Keeping me from spiraling out of control. I haven’t told her the entire plan, of course. Just the abstract. I couldn’t risk losing the one real friend I had, after all.

I sat down on the cool sheets of my bed for a minute, and the next thing I knew, I was drowning in deep, dark dreams that I couldn’t wake up from. The sleep of a million demons choking you, pulling you down into the underworld to join them. I’d forgotten how intoxicating jet lag was—how little control you had over your ability to be conscious.

And when I finally woke up, I felt worse than I did before I fell asleep. My throat itched, and my face was puffed up like a cushion. I had broken into a sweat and was now shivering because of it—no wonder, because the air conditioner had finally turned my room into an icebox.

I dragged myself to the shower and tried to put some effort into making myself look respectable. My skin had already started to break out, which was less than excellent. I should have been prepared for the fresh batch of zits that always accompanied my skin acclimatizing to the humidity, but of course I was too preoccupied to concern myself with self-maintenance. I caked on some concealer and tried not to think about how the feeling of sweat trickling down my back never really went away.

I struggled into a black cocktail dress that I knew wouldn’t be a hit with the aunties. Not because of its cut, which covered enough of my cleavage, arms, and thighs to be considered demure. It never mattered if it was tight enough that nothing was left to the imagination. Just that you were covered. Sri Lankan rules on dressing conservatively are not renowned for their logic. But it was black, which was considered unlucky at a wedding. Of course this wasn’t a wedding per se, and I didn’t have a large selection of Colombo 07–appropriate cocktail wear in my regular rotation anyway, so I had to make do. It’s not like I had the presence of mind to go shopping at any point.

I did make sure to put on earrings, though, and a thin gold necklace with a tiny diamond pendant. Not wearing earrings or a “gold chain” in Sri Lanka was the equivalent of social suicide, regardless of your socioeconomic standing. Not wearing them meant your family couldn’t provide you with the basic necessities of being a woman. If you also wore a gold bangle, even better. I remember Seetha asking me for an advance on her salary once when her niece pawned her gold earrings to pay off her husband’s gambling debts.

“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.