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will, where she can use Hindi expressions without translating, wear a
sari
and a
bindi
should the mood strike, and not feel like a foreigner.
    Even after spending her entire adult life in America and becoming a naturalized citizen, she still says, in her Indian lilt, “I can never forget where I come from, the culture of my heritage. It will
always
be part of me, those first colorful threads woven into the tapestry of my life.”
             
    W hen the aunties start packing up to leave, Uma Auntie pulls me aside. She links her arm with mine and says, “Can I steal you away for a few minutes?”
    “Uh, sure. Where to?”
    “Somewhere private. Upstairs?”
    In my former bedroom, Uma Auntie closes the door behind us. I have to admit that after my initial resentment, I like what my mother’s done with the room. It’s very inviting. A queen-sized mahogany sleigh bed with a fluffy white down comforter and throw pillows galore. Side tables with sleek candlestick lamps. On a shelf, there’s a cute procession of five multitiered sandalwood elephants, arranged in descending height.
    “Tonight couldn’t have been easy for you,” Uma Auntie says.
    I give a nervous laugh, not sure where this is going. “No. No, it wasn’t.”
    “Even Mother Teresa had her critics,” she says. “That’s what I’ve always told myself. No matter what you do, someone, somewhere is going to find fault. And each of us must decide whose opinion matters to us, and whose doesn’t. Because God knows, you can’t please everyone. It’s futile to try. Come. Sit.” Joining her, I perch on the edge of the bed, angling to face her. “I wanted to call you so many times, but I always stopped myself for one reason or another. It wasn’t my place. Your mom wouldn’t like my interference. I promised…” She shakes her head.
    “It’s okay,” I say.
    “No, but it will be. Now that you’re home.” She smiles. “Words cannot express how relieved I am that you’re back, that you chose to come home on your own. I’m proud of you, Kiran. I have a
very good
idea how difficult these years have been on you. I, of all people, can relate. If Patrick Uncle’s and my marriage hadn’t survived…” She expels a breath, puffing out her cheeks. “That’s why, of all your aunties, I’m the one who’s butting in. For perspective only I can give you.”
    “Okay…”
    From downstairs come the sounds of muffled ruckus. Loud farewells. The front door banging closed. Uma Auntie’s green-eyed gaze holds mine with single-minded focus. “As displeased as your parents may get with you,” she says, “as strained as your relationship may be with them, as tough as you think they are on you…even at worst, you still have it light-years better than I did with my father.”
    I swallow hard. Never has Uma Auntie talked about her parents. Rani told me years ago the topic was strictly off-limits, which I understood to mean a skeleton in the family closet. Curious, I asked my mom, but even she didn’t know.
    “Your parents did not, and would not, ever, under any circumstances disown you,” Uma Auntie says quietly. “They didn’t…banish you…from their lives.”
    I stop breathing. “Yours…?”
    She gives a tremulous smile. “After Patrick Uncle and I married,
Baba
said I was dead to him. I thought he would come around in time. Certainly when Rani was born…He didn’t.”
    “Uma Auntie. I’m so sorry.”
    “Me, too,” she says. “Because I never could fix things with my father while he was alive, and then it was too late. It isn’t too late for you, Kiran. Your parents have been waiting,
praying
for you to come home. We all have. Don’t leave without working things out. Or you’ll risk regretting it the rest of your life.”

----
FROM :
“Kiran Deshpande”

TO :
Preity Lindstrom; Rani Tomashot
SENT :
December 9, 20XX 11:17 PM
SUBJECT :
A blast from the past…

    Howdy, strangers! Long time, no see/talk.