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hip surgery. Shocked, I recall my many promises to have tea with her and bring the boys. Every week there’d been some new excuse and I hadn’t gone.
    St Mary’s Hospital isn’t far from the boys’ school so the following morning, after dropping the children off, I buy flowers and drive there. I hadn’t checked the visiting hours but decided, if anyone questioned me, I’d just say I was Morayo’s daughter. I’m sure this is how Morayo would have described me to the hospital staff anyway, ‘Sunshine, my daughter.’ So I take the elevator to the seventh floor, pleased when nobody stops me. The area around Morayo’sbed is cordoned off from neighbours by a plastic floral curtain and I find her on her back, breathing through her mouth. Gently, I place my hand on her wrist and whisper hello. A few stiff white hairs sprout from her otherwise dark eyebrows. I’m sad to see her looking so tired, and older than the last time I’d seen her. I pat her hand and whisper that I’ll be back. I need to put the flowers in water. There’s a side table but no vases. I should have thought of this before.
    They’re busy at the nurses’ station but after a few minutes someone offers to help, and after several more minutes of scrabbling around I’m given a plastic water cup. It’s inelegant and too small, but I do my best to make Morayo’s favourite flowers stand up straight while the same nurse now attends to her.
    ‘Hello Mrs Da Silva,’ the nurse repeats. ‘How are you feeling? Sleepy? You have a visitor.’ Then turning to me, ‘It’s the drugs, you know, that cause the drowsiness. Mrs Da Silva?’ She keeps calling until Morayo opens her eyes, squints at the nurse and then at me.
    ‘Hi,’ Morayo whispers, a smile of recognition lighting her face. She tries lifting her hand from the cover then drops it when she sees the intravenous drip attached to the back of her hand.
    ‘I’m so glad you’re okay,’ I stroke her arm.
    ‘Sunshine?’
    ‘Yes,’ I smile.
    ‘Is every, every?’
    ‘Everything’s fine,’ I say, sensing her struggle with the words.
    ‘She’ll be tired for the next few days,’ explains the nurse, as Morayo’s eyes flutter for a moment then close again. ‘She’ll do rehab, then physical therapy. The good thing is that recovery from hip surgery is usually quick. It’s what happens afterwards that you gotta keep an eye on, honey. Gotta keep her moving. You don’t want blood clots. She’s gotta get those muscles strong again. You don’t want repeat falls, that’s the danger to watch for.’
    I’m careful not to touch anything as I leave the hospital. I press the buttons of the elevator with my elbow and as soon as I step out, I pull out a hand sanitizer, meticulously wiping my fingers and then the length of my arms, before disposing of the wipe. I do it again, just to be sure, before checking my phone for any new messages.
    I know Morayo’s building well. Ten years ago I used to live there and that’s when we first met – one emotion-filled afternoon. My in-laws had been staying, and the strain of having to be the dutiful, doting daughter-in-law in a too-small apartment, with Zach still in diapers and Avi a colicky newborn, had proven too much for me. I’d fled to the laundry room trying to pull myself together, but as soon as Morayo asked what was wrong I’d burst into tears. As sometimes happens with the unexpected kindness of strangers, I found myself telling her everything. I told her how inadequate I was feeling, for it seemed that no matter how hard I tried I would never be good enough for my in-laws: never lady-like enough, never subservientenough, never educated enough, but most of all, never “Indian enough”. It was the latter that bothered me the most until Morayo reassured me by saying, ‘There’s no such thing, darling, as being “Indian enough”, no such thing as one Indian culture.’ And because she was the same age as my in-laws and because she’d lived in