Chapter 33
With his cell phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, Rohit twisted uncomfortably, laptop cradled against his side with one arm and an empty food delivery bag in the other, to shut his car door with the heel of his shoe.
“Is now a bad time?” Maisa asked on the other end of the line when she heard him grunt.
“Shit,” Rohit mumbled to himself as the laptop tipped precariously forward. He paused a minute to regroup his belongings before adding, “No. It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Rohit closed his eyes in frustration when he realized he’d left his car keys in the car.
It, in fact, was not a “fine” time to chat—it was a horrible time.
He’d just completed his first shift as a food delivery driver and it had been even more exhausting and less lucrative than he’d imagined.
But with Rich telling him to “lay low” for a bit while he sorted out this newest PR crisis, it had been the quickest form of employment Rohit could think of.
Rohit shoved the bag under the same arm as the laptop, retrieved his keys from the ignition, and hit the back of his head on the doorframe on his way out. “Who’s sick this time?” he said between gritted teeth.
“What?”
Rohit bit back a response as he trotted toward the front door of his building, which Mrs.Smith from the top floor held open when she saw him approach.
“Thanks,” he murmured to the elderly lady as he slipped past.
“Rohit?” Maisa prompted as he swung a right down the hallway toward his apartment.
The petulance in his sister’s voice slid through the last remaining traces of his patience. “Maisa, why are you calling me?”
He immediately knew, from her sharp intake of breath, that he’d hurt her feelings.
He was never short with her, never treated her calls as if they were unwelcome.
But given recent events, Rohit’s charm and levity were in short supply.
Feelings of freedom from lying and guilt had been wonderful but short-lived and soon replaced by an insistent throbbing behind his eyelids, a head-pounding drumbeat keeping time as his world crumbled around him.
Right now, he couldn’t pretend everything was great. That he was living the immigrant dream. That he had all the solutions, all the resources—and then some—to take care of everyone and every little thing under the sun.
“I-I’m sorry,” Maisa said. “I just wanted to check in.”
Rohit reached his apartment door and tightened his grip on his laptop as he unceremoniously dumped the delivery bag on the floor. “Yeah, and?”
When he turned around to close his apartment door, Rohit couldn’t help pressing his forehead into the cool, textured surface, well aware he sounded like a jerk.
But he couldn’t help it. Was another grandparent sick?
Or maybe some second cousin’s uncle needed funding to send his kid to a private school?
This line of thinking was immature and cruel—not to mention terrifying since he’d made less than fifty-three dollars in tips that day—and when Maisa didn’t respond right away, a thin, burning sensation snaked through the pit of his stomach.
His little sister didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of a cranky older brother whose professional and personal lives were burning to a crisp.
She obviously didn’t think so, either. “You know what?” Maisa snapped. “I think I’ll call later when you’re in a better mood.”
“Wait, Maze, I’m sorr—”
“Or better yet, you call me when you’re done acting like a…like a…like a bitch!”
“Maisa—”
“Rohit?” His mother’s voice appeared on the line, her tone baffled. “Why is your little sister calling you that bad word?”
Rohit placed his laptop on the counter and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Probably because I’m acting like a bitch.”
“Rohit! What’s gotten into you?”
Letting out a sigh, Rohit rubbed his temples. “Just a bad day, Ma. Horrible, actually.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Are Pappa and Maisa nearby? I think I need to talk to all of you.”
His mother provided exactly zero warning before yelling for the other members of his family directly into the speaker. The pressure between Rohit’s eyes intensified.
“I was about to take a shower,” his father grumbled in greeting.
“I have to tell you all something,” Rohit said. His voice sounded thick and he swallowed before continuing. “Something I should have told you a long time ago.”
Rohit turned to lean against the counter and stared at the blank white wall in front of him.
He tried to summon the feelings of relief he’d experienced in Rich’s office after his secret had been exposed, but this was his family .
They were so proud of him, of the successful immigrant son who took care of them, no questions asked.
This confession would splinter all that—everything they believed, and loved, about him—into broken shards he wasn’t sure he could repair.
“Well?” his mother asked as the silence stretched between them.
“I never finished my MBA.”
His announcement prompted another long pause.
“You never finished your MBA,” his mother finally repeated.
“No. When Grandma had her stroke, I dropped out of school so I could start earning money to send home.”
“Oh, Rohit,” Maisa said in a low voice.
“ Have you lost your mind? ” his mother demanded.
“Her care was more important,” Rohit argued. “And Maisa’s schooling. And—”
“My son has lost his mind!”
“Hang on,” his father chimed in, always the voice of calm if not reason. “There is nothing greater than caring for your family—”
“Have you lost it, too?” As his mother’s voice picked up in both speed and decibels, Rohit shot a nervous glance at his closed front door and quickly lowered the volume on his phone. “We sent him to Canada to study! To make something of himself—to have a better life!”
Rohit’s knees buckled and he sank to the floor. “Ma—”
“As I was saying,” his father said again, his voice slightly louder. “There is nothing greater than caring for your family.” He waited to see if his wife would interrupt him before adding, “But.”
It was one of his father’s infamous pauses, and despite having been on the receiving end of this particular kind of drama many times in the past, Rohit couldn’t help but hold his breath.
“But what, Pappa?” Maisa asked.
“ But your mother is right, too, Rohit. You are in Canada to build a life for yourself. We appreciate everything you’ve done, but we didn’t sacrifice so much to send you away so you could end up like this.”
“That’s right,” his mother said, her voice too close to the phone’s speaker. “That’s what I am saying.”
“Ma, you’re shouting,” Maisa piped in.
“I am a mother and that’s what we do to knock some sense into our senseless children.”
“End up like what exactly?” Affronted, Rohit repeated his father’s claim. “I have a degree and a good job.” Well, the job part was hanging in the balance, but Rohit wasn’t about to deep dive into that .
“Do you like your life?” his father asked. “Are you happy?”
“The last month notwithstanding, all you ever do is work or hang out at home,” Maisa chimed in. “Or drive to work or drive home. Your life seems pretty boring.”
“Thanks, Maze.” But the truth behind his sister’s summary of his existence brought a warm flush to his cheeks.
“Are you happy , son?” his father repeated gently.
Rohit closed his eyes and leaned back against the kitchen cabinet. The last year of his life hadn’t been awful, but it had been more about feeling grateful, and scared, and anxious than happy. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if getting an MBA is what I really want.”
It was the first time he’d said the words out loud, and he braced himself anew for his parents’ disappointment, well aware that the distance would do nothing to temper the pain their reaction would imprint on his heart.
But they surprised him. “Well then, maybe that’s where you need to start,” his mother said. “You need to figure out what you want first.”
“But Grandma’s medical bills. And Dadi’s diabetes medication…” Rohit protested.
“And my schooling,” Maisa added softly. Rohit’s spine straightened, the wall cool and solid pressing against his back. “That’s right,” he said firmly. “These things are too important. I want to help. It’s my responsibility to help.”
His father’s voice hardened. “And it’s our responsibility to care for you, too. Family takes care of one another . It’s time we reached out to our siblings. We appreciate your help, Rohit, but our entire family’s care should not fall upon you. You need to live your life, too.”
Rohit hadn’t realized he was crying until the first tears splashed onto his pants. He swiped at his damp face. “I—” He wasn’t sure what to say, not with his voice choked up like this, the single word trembling precariously on the edge of his worst fear.
Because since that day he’d quit school, this was the moment he had feared and hidden behind congenial smiles and never-ending cheer. This entire time, he’d believed the love between him and his family was one of sacrifice and responsibility.
Well, he’d been right in a way, but he hadn’t realized that this relationship with his family wasn’t a one-sided affair. It was a full, perfect circle. That same sacrifice and responsibility was reflected right back.
They loved him, regardless.
“I—” Rohit tried again. “I was so scared how you’d react.”
His boisterous mother’s voice softened, as it always did when tears were involved. “You are our son first, no matter what country you are in or what you choose to do with your life.”
“Or whom you choose to spend it with,” Maisa added. “Because we all agree, in the last month, you’ve been a lot less boring.”
“She’s right,” his mother chimed in. “Go live your life, Rohit. We support you.”
“I still want to help where I can,” Rohit said, using the heel of his hand to dry his eyes. “Maisa’s education is important to me.”
“We appreciate it,” his father said. “But don’t forget to put yourself first, too. We’ll figure this out together.”
“And I’m sorry I called you a bitch,” Maisa said.