What was I trying to paint? I step back and study the painting on my easel.

"This looks super sad?" Nia says, walking beside me, munching chips.

"W... what?"

"Your painting." She turns the empty chips packed upside and exhales. "All I see is a lot of grey on the canvas. All cool at the gallery?"

I nod and drop the brush into the vase.

She slumps into the sofa and twiddles her thumbs on the phone screen. "Is there food?"

"I'm tired, honey. Could you fix yourself —"

"FINE. Not hungry." She plugs her earphones, closes her eyes, and taps to music I can't hear.

I'm too drained to yell back. She was a nice kid, simple and undemanding, until last year. Maybe she misses Keshav — it wasn't her fault it didn't work out between us. She's sixteen now. Should understand why we divorced.

I place the tawa on the burner, feel the warmth with my palm and drop a wad of butter over the frozen Kerala paratha — she likes the excess butter dripping off — just like Keshav. "Any preference for curry?" I flip the paratha, "Curry?" I lean out from the kitchen.

She snorts and returns to the phone, rubbing her finger lightly under her nose — Keshav's habit.

"Tofu?" I raise my voice to be heard over the earphones. "Tofu and beans?"

She frowns and unplugs the earphones. "Anything is fine for fuck —"

"WHAT!"

She stomps to her bedroom and slams the door. The tawa sizzles, and I flip the Paratha. Too late; it's burned. I discard it and start over. Wish I could start over, too.

"Grab a bite, Nia," I yell at the closed door.

My phone buzzes — it's Revati. It's quarter past ten. Why is she calling so late?

"Hey, Rev."

"You're at home?"

"Yup."

"Did you get the closure notice? I emailed it to you."

I shudder and grab the dining chair for support.

"Reena? You here?"

"Uh-huh."

"Shall we talk tomorrow?"

"How long do we have?"

"By this month's end."

"They gave us just one week?" The phone slides off my hands. I pull out a dining chair and rest my head on the glass top. Somewhere on the floor, Revati's voice jitters and fades.

"Mum." I feel fingers through my hair and squint at the light. "You all right?"

I nod, clutching my hair for the faint headache.

"Here." She cups my chin and tips a glass of water over my lips. "Did you take your meds?"

I gulp and wipe my mouth with the back of my palm. "I forgot." Her plate is still on the table with the paratha, now cold. I glance at the clock: half-past twelve. "Had dinner?"

"Not without you."

She carries the plate to the kitchen, and the microwave beeps. I scroll through my phone and re-read the notice in the email.

"Let's eat." She places the plate in front of me and breaks the paratha in two, blowing the heat off her fingers. "Sauce or pickle?"

"Pickle."

She scoops a teaspoon from the pickle jar and smears it on the paratha. "Aaaa!" she hovers a morsel in front of me, and I let her feed me. It should be the other way around, but I feel exhausted. She wipes the pickle clean off the plate and licks her fingers. "This is weirdly good." She smacks her lips. "I would die for some coffee right now."

I slap her arm. "How many times have I told you not to talk about death?"

She rolls her eyes, "Sorry, baba. I was just —"

"I'm exhausted."

"Oh, c'mon. Move your lazy bum, Maa."

"Language, Nia!"

"Fine, fine, I'll do it myself," she half rises, "only for myself."

"Shut up, ass. Make one for me, too."

I follow her and perch on the kitchen counter. Should I tell her about the closure notice? She's studying the instructions on the coffee bottle with her lips pouted. "You need help?"

"Oh, puh-leeze, I can make coffee."

"I need to tell you something. It's about the gallery."

"I spoke to Revati Auntie," she says, igniting the burner.

"And?"

"You need to let go, Maa. No one buys art these days. And how much rent do we pay? 60k?"

"58.5"

"And sales?"

"20.5 k last month."

"And it was one of those better months?"

I nod.

She pours the coffee and sits beside me, offering me a cup. She blows into her cup and sips, "Mm, lovely."

I sip and force a smile. "Not bad."

"Bad? Best freaking coffee." She bounces her eyebrows. "Is the gallery the reason why you are suddenly trying to paint after all these years?"

"Yeah," I say, looking at my painting on the canvas.

She rolls her eyes and sips.

"That bad, huh?"

"Good you stopped painting and focused on selling others," she murmurs, pressing her lips to hide her smile.

I tap her head, and she chuckles.

"I can pull it off, Nia. I need one painting to sell. Just one."

"And do we have this ONE painting?"

I shake my head.

"C'mon, Maa. It's been a year since you parted with Dad. Had you taken the alimony —"

"Stop."

"Okay, okay. Chill." She zips her lips.

"I don't need one penny from him. Self-respect, remember? We have enough to get you into university."

"And then? What after?"

"I'll make it work." I rinse the cup. "You've got an early morning. Get to bed."

"Meds first." She hands me a capsule and a glass of water. "Go on. I want to see you take it."

I swallow, and she tugs me to the washroom, handing me a toothbrush and squeezing toothpaste on hers. We brush in silence, side by side, sharing the basin and the mirror. She's almost my height, taller, maybe.

"Whom were you chatting with? Boyfriend?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes. "I wish," the foam leaks off her lips. "You know," she gargles and spits, "you need a boyfriend."

"Really?" I narrow my eyes and curb my smile.

"Yeah. Hrithik's available."

"Roshan? You want a boyfriend for yourself or me?" I elbow her.

"Ouch!" she exaggerates and flicks the brush into the glass. "Time...To...Sleeeep!" she sings and slumps into my bed instead of hers. "I'm sleeping here."

"Hello, get to your bedroom, madam." I pull the lone pillow to my side.

She snatches it back, hugs it tight, wraps her leg over it, and fake snores.

I draw another pillow, pull the blanket over her, and lie next to her, waiting for the night to lend some sleep, watching her face in the soft glow of the night lamp. I slide my arm under her head, and she snuggles into me, mumbling, "I'll get you a painting. I'll get...."

I'll get it, Nia. I must.

***