comprehend how the woman who had tended to and nurtured me just as she had her garden had become so alienated from me in such a short time. She had broken my heart by not confiding in me and had put salt on my wounds by replacing my father with a man I could never accept. How she had left her ferns and bougainvilleas in the hands of others in whose care they had failed to thrive. I hoped she would never hurt Sara that way. I was protective of her and loved her with all my heart.
When I left for my summer vacation to Pakistan, I packed everything in a hurry, topping my luggage off with a schoolbag for Zareen, a Nintendo game for Sahir, and a giggling Elmo for Sara. I could not wait to see my baby sister. I knew she would come running to me, and she did. She looked adorable with her hair braided and tied in pink ribbons and her cheeks as rosy as ever. Sahir had glasses and looked leaner than before. Sara was four by then, and had started asking questions which were honest and simple, yet very difficult to answer.
“Why don’t you live with us, Apa?” she would ask, her brown eyes wide open. I told her that I was studying in America and maybe when she was older, she could go there as well. Ioften read to her at night,
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
being her favorite, and she asked me to read it to her over and over again. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of us all?” she would say along with me.
I sang her lullabies until she dozed off to sleep. We named her dolls, braided their hair, and built their imaginary homes. On one occasion we invited all the children from the neighborhood to celebrate a pretend wedding, with the doll wearing fancy clothes that my mother had stitched for her. Sara always looked up to me, searching for the light, trying to imbibe some wisdom; little did she know that the light was actually within her and it was I who wished to absorb the innocence from her. The innocence that had once defined me and had now escaped me, replaced by a coldness that felt numb, yet still painful, like an anesthetic that had not been effective.
One night at the dinner table, she naively remarked, “Abbu, I am going to America with Apa.” He looked at her quizzically and shot a harsh glance toward my mother and then toward me. It felt like an accusing arrow piercing through. After Sara was asleep, he came to me and said, “What is this nonsense about Sara going to America?”
Becoming immediately defensive, I replied, “I am sorry if you are offended or threatened, but your daughter asked me why I don’t live here and I had to tell her something, so I said it was for my education and she could join me in America if she wished.”
“Why should I be threatened? She is not going anywhere. You should have told her the truth—that you don’t live here because you ran away and because you were ungrateful.”
“Then I would have to tell her why I ran away. It was because of you, and I don’t want to spoil your image in her eyes. I would never want a daughter to think badly of her father. She thinks you are perfect.”
We went on in this fashion, arguing over nothing, our deep-rooted hatred for each other surfacing in a variety of ways, ruining the peaceful world around us.
“The fact is, I am not perfect, Sana. Nobody is,” he said. “But even if I were, for you I would always be the bad guy, the person who took your father’s place. You had decided before you even met me that you were going to hate me from the core of your heart. I have come to accept that now, but I think you need to be more considerate of your mother’s feelings.”
“You don’t need to tell me how to handle my mother’s feelings; that’s between her and me. As for Sara, I love her to death, and if she comes to stay with me for a while, it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Sahir comes too.”
“Sahir has an aunt there. Sara does not. I don’t know why we are having this pointless discussion. You don’t know
When I left for my summer vacation to Pakistan, I packed everything in a hurry, topping my luggage off with a schoolbag for Zareen, a Nintendo game for Sahir, and a giggling Elmo for Sara. I could not wait to see my baby sister. I knew she would come running to me, and she did. She looked adorable with her hair braided and tied in pink ribbons and her cheeks as rosy as ever. Sahir had glasses and looked leaner than before. Sara was four by then, and had started asking questions which were honest and simple, yet very difficult to answer.
“Why don’t you live with us, Apa?” she would ask, her brown eyes wide open. I told her that I was studying in America and maybe when she was older, she could go there as well. Ioften read to her at night,
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
being her favorite, and she asked me to read it to her over and over again. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of us all?” she would say along with me.
I sang her lullabies until she dozed off to sleep. We named her dolls, braided their hair, and built their imaginary homes. On one occasion we invited all the children from the neighborhood to celebrate a pretend wedding, with the doll wearing fancy clothes that my mother had stitched for her. Sara always looked up to me, searching for the light, trying to imbibe some wisdom; little did she know that the light was actually within her and it was I who wished to absorb the innocence from her. The innocence that had once defined me and had now escaped me, replaced by a coldness that felt numb, yet still painful, like an anesthetic that had not been effective.
One night at the dinner table, she naively remarked, “Abbu, I am going to America with Apa.” He looked at her quizzically and shot a harsh glance toward my mother and then toward me. It felt like an accusing arrow piercing through. After Sara was asleep, he came to me and said, “What is this nonsense about Sara going to America?”
Becoming immediately defensive, I replied, “I am sorry if you are offended or threatened, but your daughter asked me why I don’t live here and I had to tell her something, so I said it was for my education and she could join me in America if she wished.”
“Why should I be threatened? She is not going anywhere. You should have told her the truth—that you don’t live here because you ran away and because you were ungrateful.”
“Then I would have to tell her why I ran away. It was because of you, and I don’t want to spoil your image in her eyes. I would never want a daughter to think badly of her father. She thinks you are perfect.”
We went on in this fashion, arguing over nothing, our deep-rooted hatred for each other surfacing in a variety of ways, ruining the peaceful world around us.
“The fact is, I am not perfect, Sana. Nobody is,” he said. “But even if I were, for you I would always be the bad guy, the person who took your father’s place. You had decided before you even met me that you were going to hate me from the core of your heart. I have come to accept that now, but I think you need to be more considerate of your mother’s feelings.”
“You don’t need to tell me how to handle my mother’s feelings; that’s between her and me. As for Sara, I love her to death, and if she comes to stay with me for a while, it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Sahir comes too.”
“Sahir has an aunt there. Sara does not. I don’t know why we are having this pointless discussion. You don’t know
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