My niece and her friend—still very young—are sitting on the bed. One has long black hair and makeup that’s far too bright. Around them, there are scattered photographs: glossy, printed out, full of life. I manage only a quick glance before the girls gather them into a pile. My heart stops.
— How old are you? — I ask, and my voice sounds unfamiliar and lifeless.
The girl raises her eyebrows in surprise.
— I’m twenty. You’ve come to cook food—for my party too. Zarin and I were born on the same day. This is our first joint party.
I close my eyes. Twenty.
My daughter is also twenty.
And suddenly I realize I’ve seen this girl at our house. Has my husband married the friend of our daughter?