Page 152 of Reasons We Break

AFTER NEETU’S RESPLENDENTwedding, Simran’s sister moves back to Kelowna. Temporarily, anyway—her new job in Vancouver starts in the fall. In the meantime, she’s living with a friend ten minutes away. And Simran’s spent more time with her in a month than she has in ten years.

“I’m starting to think we’re screwed on the apartments front,” Kiran says one mid-August day, while they’re on her childhood bed scrolling through Vancouver rental listings. “Maybe Neetu and Gurjeevan will let us live in their backyard.”

Simran smiles. She’s officially transferring to UBC Vancouver in January—a semester late because of her delayed acceptance, but at least she’s going. “I’m sure they’d at least give us the garage.”

Despite her joke, though, shedoesfeel sort of anxious flipping through the rental prices. In some ways, it would’ve been easier to stay in Kelowna. Or at least less expensive.

“Dr. Chen told me how hard it is to get tenure as a professor,” Simran admits aloud. “Now I’m afraid I’m going to finish school with a bunch of degrees but no job. Maybe everyone was right and I should’ve done the MCAT.”

Kiran grabs a pillow and starts beating her over the head with it. “TheMCAT? You’re having a moment of weakness! Be strong! We’ll get through this!”

Simran laughs, at least for a second. “Ow! You’re hitting my glasses!” She shoves her off.

Kiran watches Simran adjust her frames. “You never did tell me what happened to your old ones.”

Simran pauses. Without warning, dark memories rise to the surface. The rough wooden desk against her cheek. The cold metal of a gun. The crunch of glass under boots.

You’re sitting on Kiran’s bed,she reminds herself.Her mattress is soft. The blankets are warm. You hear birds outside, not gunshots.

The memories ebb slowly. She exhales. She hasn’t heard from the Lions since she left Manny Khullar’s mansion. Life has returned to normal. It’s a relief, but also...it sometimes feels like she lost something. A thing she only had at the expense of every other part of her life, yes, but one that kept her afloat when she desperately needed it. “I fell.”

“Stop being so clumsy, then.” Kiran swings her legs off the bed. “I need a break from apartment hunting. Let’s pick this up tomorrow.” She opens the window.

“You’re not going through the front door?”

“And deal with Mom’s death glares? No thanks. I don’t know howyouhandle it.” She swings her leg over the windowsill. “Huh, weird.”

“What?”

“There’s a toothpick lodged in the shingle.”

“Very weird,” Simran agrees. “See you.”

Once Kiran’s gone, Simran heads downstairs, because she too has plans today. Her father’s in the living room reading the newspaper. She’s about to say hello, but he puts a finger to his lips and nods toward the kitchen.

Simran peers cautiously through the doorway. Her mom’s at the counter with the laptop, scrolling through a website.

Curiosity has Simran creeping forward. It’s a site for a medical office assistant program. She stops in her tracks. Her mom hasn’t done more than odd jobs in decades. Why this, why now?

Simran steps on a loose floorboard, and at the faint squeak, her mother instantly slams the laptop shut. She doesn’t say anything, of course. Simran knew what she was giving up, the day of their fight, but a part of her hoped somehow they’d bridge the gap. Weeks later, she’s starting to see that won’t happen.

But Simran still cannot see her mother as the bad guy. Not when she understands her so well now. Not when she almostbecameher.

“You should apply,” Simran says quietly. “I think you might enjoy it.”

Her mother speaks then. It’s so surprising Simran jumps. “Enjoy? That has nothing to do with it. I would do it to make us money, to be productive. I probably won’t. It would be too much time away from home.”

She says this very fast, and Simran wonders if she’s embarrassed. “Not everything has to be about the family. You could...do somethingjustfor yourself, too.”

She thinks her mom might scoff, but instead she stares into space. It’s clearly still an incomprehensible concept to her. Might always be. That’s the ironic thing: It’s only because of her mom’s sacrifices that Simran can afford to do things for herself, to take risks, to do some things out of love rather than logic.Thatis the better life her parents made for her. But they’ve spent so long in survival mode they can no longer see it.

Simran exits the kitchen as quietly as she came, leaving her mother to her dreams.

Toor Uncle’s workshop is loud when Simran enters, her footsteps drowned out by mechanical whirring and pistons.

Toor Uncle waves at her from a car with the hood popped open. “Birdie, it’s good to see you.” She returns his hug. “Your mother’s bike is over here. Finally fixed. Only took usmonths!”

He cackles, pointing. Her mother’s bike is leaned against the wall, now pristine. Simran bends to examine it. “Uncle ji, you did too much.” He’s added a basket, a bottle cage, and a fresh coat of paint over the rust. Grey, with sunflower yellow accents. The artistry is impressive.