“It’s been a long time.” Sonya hesitates, almost unsure how to react to the reception that greets her. She steps toward our mother, on autopilot it seems, pulling her in for a perfunctory hug. Her arms tighten briefly around Mama before she drops them back to her side. “Marin? It’s good to see you.” They embrace lightly, their years of living apart creating a greater distance than a difference in age ever could. “Trisha?” She says it on a laugh, her eyes finally filling with emotion. She walks toward me, her arms outstretched. I grab her hand, my little sister, and pull her in tight. “I’ve missed you.” It is a whisper in my hair, her words so quiet they are almost lost.
My throat convulses, the words refusing to come. She is here, after I have spent so many years wanting and wondering. I start to feel the emptiness recede as her presence fills me. As a child I took her for granted. Now I know I will never do so again. My tears fall onto her shoulder as we hold one another. I wrap the palm of my hand around the back of her head, as a mother would hold a child. I bring her in closer, sure if I keep her tight enough she will never leave again. Filled with desperation and relief, I whisper back, “Welcome home.”
To anyone watching, we are a normal family. Food passes around and plates fill to overflowing. The family finishes the bottle of wine as Sonya regales us with tales of her extensive travels. From Alaska to Russia, she has lived in every place imaginable. She tells Gia of riding an elephant in Thailand and flying in a propeller plane over glaciers in Alaska.
“Where did you live?” Gia is enthralled. “Moving place to place must have been hard.”
“It was worth it,” Sonya says. She avoids meeting anyone’s searching gaze. Fiddling with her linen napkin, she folds it into a perfect square. “For the pictures.”
“You should have come home.” Mama’s voice is low, but nonetheless it silences the chatter. “Your travels took you very far away.” She immigrated to America from India over twenty-five years ago, but a slight accent remains.
“It was my job,” Sonya answers quietly.
“And when you weren’t doing your job? Where were you then?” Mama wipes her mouth with her napkin.
A palpable tension settles over the table. Sonya glances at me, unsure. Suddenly I see the little girl who cowered in our bedroom, sure the blanket on our bed would protect her. The one who laughed so she wouldn’t cry.
“She’s home now,” I say. “That’s all that matters, right?” Not waiting for an answer, I call out, “Eloise.” She pops her head out. “Please bring out the birthday cake and dessert.” She has made fresh gulab jambu, Sonya’s favorite from childhood. Fried wheat balls steeped in sugary syrup. Sonya used to eat at least half a dozen every time Mama made them.
I begin to clear the table. Eric immediately stands to help, as does Raj, Marin’s husband. Raj has remained quiet throughout the meal. He often says very little, choosing to let Marin steer the conversations as she wishes. “As soon as dessert is served, we should start to make plans to visit Papa.” I stack the fine china carefully and hand the plates to Eric to take to the kitchen. “He is only allowed two family members at a time during visiting hours, but I’m sure the doctor will make an exception for a special event.”
“How is he?” Sonya stares at her clasped hands. Both men and Gia are in the kitchen, leaving only us women at the table.
Before I can answer, Marin says, “He’s in a coma.” Her voice is devoid of all emotion. “The doctor says it doesn’t look good.”
I flinch, seeing him lying in the hospital bed, tubes keeping him alive. Every morning I visit him as soon as I awake, each time harder than the last. But as the favored daughter, it is my responsibility to return the gift of his love. I accept my duty graciously.
“Is he expected to come out of it?” Sonya has found her footing. She stares directly at Marin, two equals discussing the situation. Watching them, I notice their similarities are striking. Both highly educated, focused on their careers. Neither makes any apologies for her life choices—regardless of whom they hurt. They are both beautiful but neither bothers to enhance their looks. They are my sisters but often I wondered if I was the only real daughter while they were pretending. Like stepchildren, they were never allowed to forget their place: a few steps outside the circle of the real family.