Questions Under the Bright Lamp

My mother’s voice was already full of the ceremony before she asked anything, and I let that brightness fool me for a minute. Guest room cleaned. Three weeks. She spoke as if returning were simple, and I gave her the most professional version of “I will try,” which is apparently my family’s word for I do not promise to come.

Then she mentioned Sunita’s mother, and I felt the floor shift beneath my carefully maintained life. What exactly does she think I do? Events? I wanted to laugh at the neat little explanation, but I heard the doubt underneath it. My mother defended me, yet defending me also means she had something to defend.

That is the part I cannot forgive. I have lied professionally, affectionately, and almost harmlessly for years. I have never enjoyed hurting my own family, but I keep making their ignorance convenient. If they knew, they would look at me differently. Worse, I would have to look at myself differently.

I left Arjun a careful message because the truth had too many sharp edges. “I am fine” was technically true in the way I have come to rely on: I was upright, working, and alone with my questions. I wanted him to ask what was wrong. I wanted to be pursued past the sentence, even though I kept offering him only the acceptable version.

By midnight, my mother’s questions and Arjun’s unread silence occupied the same screen. I wondered which frightened me more: being found lying, or being seen caring.