“How can you say that? I was protecting you. So you didn’t end up hurt by that American boy. And that is exactly what happened, no?”
I flinched inwardly, but then looked her squarely in the eyes. “No. The person who hurt me was you.”
As soon as the words were out, just like yesterday when I’d told Jared I was quitting, I felt both exhilarated and terrified. I’d never been that direct with her. We didn’t openly share our feelings, even though I’d often wished we could. In the months that followed my parents’ storming out of my apartment, I’d tried to keep some semblance of a relationship with them, but whenever I tried to bring up Alex, my mother would shut down. It was draining to pretend that the most significant person in my life did not exist. When she’d given me the ultimatum several months ago to choose between her and Alex, while it was difficult, I’d known I had to prioritize my future with him. She would not even hear my arguments about why there was room for both in my life and I should not have to pick one. Now, like she had after that conversation, instead of wanting to sit down and have a chat about what I had just said, she did exactly what I expected, what any Indian mother would have done. She stared at me silently, no emotion registering on her face. Coldness cut deeper than any angry outburst ever could.
“Think what you want. But someday you will learn it is childish to believe that love is all you need in a marriage,” she said before leaving the room.
Screw it. I was tired of letting her end these fights on her terms. If she had wanted me to be an obedient Indian daughter, then she should have kept me in India for my entire life instead of moving me away from it.
“Wait,” I called after her, not caring that everyone else in the house could probably now hear us. “We need to talk about this.”
She spun back around. In a low but stern voice she said, “I tried to talk to you months ago. Remember? Hah? I called you twice. It was you who did not respond. You didn’t want to talk about it then, so why should I talk about it now?”
Guilt was a powerful weapon. It was rare for her to show even this much emotion, and seeing it revealed just how injured she had been. Maybe even as much as me.
In a small voice, I said, “I didn’t call you back because I was mad. Not because I wanted you to stop trying.”
“You can’t have it both ways.”
Her words hung in the air as I realized Carrie had been right. Even if I hadn’t been ready to admit it, part of the reason I’d immediately felt lighter after quitting was because it had freed me to go back to Alex. To move to New York and find a job there. The city had countless law firms, and what had seemed so daunting a few months ago now seemed possible. Not just possible, but the decision I always should have made. When Alex moved, he had taken a part of me with him, and to feel whole again I needed to go back to him.
I thought back to the moments in India when I had seen my mother’s vulnerability. Like when she had been in the kitchen making nimbu pani and let tears fall when she thought she was alone. My heart ached to think of her reaction if I told her I had quit my job and was going back to Alex. I knew that from that moment onward we would have a series of interactions like the fight we’d just had. That is, of course, if we had any interactions at all. I’d never see her vulnerable side because it would harden like it had that weekend when she met Alex and stormed out of our apartment. The last time it had been easy to choose Alex. If anything, it was unthinkable not to, so it wasn’t a choice. But now it felt like one. I was never going to be happy without Alex, my mother was never going to be happy with him, but I wasn’t prepared to lose either.
Dipti had been floating through the house as if in a trance, so I was surprised when she stopped in the doorway to my bedroom soon after my mother had marched downstairs.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to get you something?” I asked her, desperate to ease her pain and push mine aside.
“I heard you and Mom fighting.”
“Sorry. We didn’t mean to be so loud. I hope we didn’t wake you.”
Mom felt like a label that only Neel and I should be using, and it sounded strange every time I heard Dipti say it, almost as if she were an outsider trying to fit in. Or worse, maybe it bothered me because she was the one who did fit in and I was the outsider.
Dipti was no longer wearing the white sari she’d had on for the past few days to signify that she was in mourning and was now wearing Western lounge pants and a cotton T-shirt. She sat on the bed next to me and stared out of the window. It was slightly ajar, and the smell of burnt paper from fireworks wafted in, likely from a neighbor’s wedding event.