Page 37 of Reasons We Break

“Really?” TJ’s voice lifts. “I owe you one, seriously. Call me when you’re done with exams, okay?”

“Sure,” Simran says, and hangs up. “The cake’s—”

“Ready!” Kiran appears at the doorway with their frosted dessert, now decorated with berries. “Simmi, get the camera.”

Simran obliges, while everyone sits at the dining table. Her mom doesn’t smile when Simran presses the cake-cutting knife into her hand. She stares woodenly while Simran lights the candles.

Simran tries to ignore the dead silence and sings “Happy Birthday.” Kiran joins in, off-key, but their dad just sits there, unusually somber. Today’s supposed to be happy, and it’s like her parents aren’t even trying.

Frustrated, Simran lifts her camera. “Mom, make a wish and blow out the candles.”

Her mother finally speaks. “This is such a nice cake.”

“It’s lemon-vanilla,” Simran says eagerly. “We wanted to make it special.”

“Why?”

The question rings through the room. Her mom is suddenly looking directly at her. Simran begins to sweat. “Because—”

“Because what, you think I’ll be dead next year?”

Complete. Silence.

Simran’s throat is dry. “No, I—You’llhavemore birthdays, Mom. I just wanted a nice memory.”

But she can tell that was the wrong thing to say, too. Her mother actually looks like Simran slapped her.A memory.

Her father excuses himself somewhat jerkily, chair scraping back, muttering something about going to the washroom. Her mother pushes the cake away. She looks so frail; the last few weeks have aged her.

“Mom?” Simran asks, voice soft, and to her horror, her mother’s face crumples. Abruptly, she pushes away from the table too and disappears down the hall.

“Where’re you going?” Kiran shouts, but their mother’s already gone. Kiran shakes her head as if irritated. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.” She pulls the cake toward herself.

“Kiran,”Simran snaps. “Are you serious? That’s for Mom.”

“And she’s not eating it,” Kiran hisses back. There’s tension in her jaw, like she’s holding something back, too. “Someone should. We went to all that effort, and she’s being dramatic again.”

“We’ll eat it when they get back.”

Kiran huffs. “You’reallbeing ridiculous.” And with that, she shoves away from the table too, storming upstairs. A minute later, Simran hears her bedroom door slam shut.

Simran waits. Long enough that the candles begin dripping wax onto the icing. Once they’ve melted by half and nobody’s returned, she snuffs them out and puts the cake in the fridge.

It’s as she’s sliding the camera back into its case that her dad’s familiar footsteps come down the stairs. She wheels around, full of hope, but one look at his face and it’s extinguished again.

“Sher putt.” His eyes are red-rimmed. “Will you play a shabad for me?”

Simran practically leaps to get her rabab and drag it into the living room. She sits cross-legged on the carpet, and her dad brings out the tabla. She plays a simple shabad, one her mother loves, and sings it loud enough that she should be able to hear from upstairs. Maybe it will even draw her out.

But when the last note fades, it’s still just her and her dad.

He leans back. “We need to talk.”

Simran’s chest tightens. “Can we do it later?”

“I don’t think so, nikka putt. Your mom and I have been thinking,” he says, and as soon as he started withyour mom, Simran’s shaking her head. “No, listen. Listen. You’ve been so strong during all this. Keeping us together. But this whole thing has made us think about...the future.”

“The future,” Simran repeats.