“How did you come here? Where are you staying? Are you going back to school? Do you have a job?” Deepa Auntie, her mother’s cousin and a failed interior designer, tossed the end of her dupatta over her shoulder, the long, sheer, hot pink scarf embellished with small crystal beads inadvertently slapping her father’s youngest sister, Lakshmi, on the cheek.

“Something bad is going to happen,” superstitious Lakshmi Auntie moaned. “I can feel it in my face.”

Mehar Auntie snorted as she adjusted her sari, the long folds of bright green material draping over her generous hips. “You thought something bad was going to happen when the milk boiled over last week.”

“Don’t make fun, Mehar,” Lakshmi Auntie said with a scowl. “I told you Layla’s relationship wasn’t going to work when I found out she left on a full-moon night.”

“No one thought it would work out,” Mehar Auntie scoffed. “The boy didn’t even go to university. Layla needs a professional, someone easy on the eyes like Salman Khan. Remember the scene in Dabangg? I went wild in the theater when he ripped off his shirt.”

Layla’s aunties groaned. Mehar Auntie knew the moves to every Bollywood dance and the words to every song. She was Layla’s favorite aunt, not just because she wasn’t shy to bust out her moves at every wedding, but also because she shared Layla’s love of movies from Hollywood to Bollywood to indie.

“Mehar Auntie!” Layla gasped mockingly. “What about Hrithik Roshan? He’s the number one actor in Bollywood. No one can dance like him. He’s so perfect he hardly seems human.”

“Too skinny.” Mehar Auntie waved a dismissive hand. “He looks like he was shrink-wrapped. I like a man with meat on his bones.”

“Mehar. Really.” Nira Auntie shook a finger in disapproval, the glass bindi bracelets on her arm jingling softly. She owned a successful clothing store in Sunnyvale and her exquisitely embroidered mustard yellow and olive green salwar kameez had a fashion-forward open back. “My children are here.”

“Your children are men in their twenties. They’re hardly going to be shocked by my appreciation of a well-muscled man.”

“If you spent less time dreaming and dancing, you could have had one for yourself.”

Layla winced at the burn. Mehar Auntie was well past what was considered marriageable age, but seemed content with her single life and her work as a dance teacher in Cupertino.

“Layla needs stability in her life, not some singing, dancing actor with no brains in his head.” Salena Auntie pinched Layla’s cheeks. She’d been trying to get Layla married off since her third birthday. “What will you do now? What are your intentions?”

“I’m done with men, Auntie-ji,” she said affectionately.

“Don’t call me Auntie.” She tucked her gray hair under her embroidered headscarf. “I am not so old.”

“You are old.” Taara Auntie pushed her aside and handed Layla a Tupperware container. “And you’re too thin. Eat. I made it just for you.”

“What’s this?”

Taara Auntie smiled and patted Layla’s hand. “I’ve been taking cooking classes at the YMCA. I’m learning to make Western food, but I’ve added an Indian twist. This is Indian American fusion lasagna. I used roti instead of pasta, added a little halloumi cheese, and flavored the tomato sauce with mango chutney and a bit of cayenne. Try it.” She watched eagerly as Layla lifted the lid.

“It looks . . . delicious.” Her stomach lurched as she stared at the congealed mass of soggy bread, melted cheese, and bright orange chutney.

“You’re going to put me out of business.” Layla’s father snatched the container out of her hand and studied the contents. “What an interesting combination of flavors. We’ll enjoy it together this evening when we have time to appreciate the nuance of your creation.”

Layla shot him a look of gratitude, and he put an arm around her shoulders.

“Don’t eat it,” he whispered. “Your sister-in-law tried her chicken nugget vindaloo surprise last week and she was sick for two days. If you’re planning to travel in the next week—”

“I’m not. I’m staying here. I’m moving back home. My stuff is arriving in the next few days.”

“Jana, did you hear that?” His face lit up with delight. “She’s not going back to New York.”

“What about your job?” her mother asked, her dark eyes narrowing.

“I thought it was time for a change, and I wanted to be here so I could help you . . .” Her voice trailed off when her mother frowned.

“She wants to be with us, Jana,” her father said. “Why are you looking at her like that?”

“We aren’t old. We don’t need help. She had a good job. Every week I time her on the Face and she doesn’t say anything is bad at work.”

“It’s called FaceTime, Mom, and it’s not as good as being with the people you love.”

“She loves her family. Such a good girl.” Layla’s father wrapped her in a hug even as her mother waggled a warning finger in her direction. Emotional manipulation didn’t work on her mother. Neither did lies.

“Tell me the truth,” her mother warned. “When I die, you will feel the guilt and realize . . .”

“Mom . . .”

“No. I will die.”

“Fine.” Layla pulled away from the warmth of her father’s arms. It was almost impossible to lie to her mother when she started talking about her own death. “I was fired.”

Silence.

Layla braced herself for the storm. Even though her mother was emotionally reserved, there were times when she let loose, and from the set of her jaw, it was clear this was going to be one of those times.

“Because of the boy?”

“Indirectly, yes.”

“Oh, beta.” Her father held out his arms, his voice warm with sympathy, but when Layla moved toward him, her mother blocked her with a hand.

“No hugs for her.” She glared at Layla. “I told you so. I told you not to leave. New York is a bad place. Too big. Too many people. No sense of family. No values. You had boyfriend after boyfriend and all of them were bad, all of them hurt you. And this one makes you lose your job . . .” She continued her rant, mercifully keeping her voice low so the aunties wouldn’t hear.

All her life, Layla had wanted to make her parents as proud as they had been of Dev, but the traditional roads of success weren’t open to her. With only average marks and no interest in the “acceptable” careers—doctor, engineer, accountant, and lawyer is okay—she’d forged her own path. Yes, they’d supported her through business school, although they hadn’t really understood her decision to specialize in human resource management. Her father had even wept with pride at her graduation. But underneath it all she could feel their disappointment. And now she’d disgraced herself and the family. No wonder her mother was so upset.