When we arrived home, Ajit sat waiting by the kitchen island, as per usual.

Varun and I walked in silently.

Ajit scanned our demeanors, "Have a good time?" he asked.

Funny, I could be asking him the exact same thing.

Varun and I glanced at each other, and then looked back towards Ajit.

"As much fun as I could have finishing the dumb project," I lied.

Ajit pressed his lips together, and nodded, as if he were satisfied by my answer. Ajit looked over at Varun, "And you, Varun?"

Varun shook his head, "What about me?" he asked.

Ajit scowled at Varun's tone, not asking any further questions. He just stared at Varun.

I felt the need to break the tension and also to put Ajit in his place. "How was your day, Ajit?" I asked.

"Fine," Ajit simply replied.

"Fine?" I inquired, "I hope your company was fine."

Ajit pursed his lips, "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

I shook my head, "Nothing, nothing."

Varun let out a playful chuckle that he quickly muffled. Ajit shot him daggers with his eye, and I pretended not to notice.

Other than that, the afternoon was quite mundane, which I guess was fitting for a very non-mundane morning.

I decided to take some time for solitude; my social battery was completely drained. I laid on the couch in the living room. Varun and Ajit were upstairs. I heard a rumbling in the keyhole of the main door. After some jangling, my mother entered.

I instinctively sat upright, "Mom, You're home, "I said.

We've talked a lot about my father, enough to where I'm sure you've got an alright grasp on his personality. Mama Ahuja is a whole other ballpark.

Sometimes I look at these girls who have amazing relationships with their mothers and I'm jealous. I'm jealous because that could never be me; I can barely tell my mother the simplest things in my life. Honestly, she's pretty much an absent parent and it hurts. One of my parents died and the other one died but is still living.

But something was different that day. I saw the exhaustion in her eyes and her soul seemed completely tired. Behind her eyes it seemed that she was begging for me to break through her tough demeanor. I didn't know if I could, but some thing with the urging me to try.

"How was your day?" I asked

She turned a face me, again, "Fine,"she said, shortly.

I shut my eyes tightly and open them, "How was your day, really? "I repeated.

Maybe this would show her that I really cared and wasn't going to take a one-word generic answer.

She sighed, and began walking towards me on the couch, "It was exhausting, " she admitted

Her shoulders sunk into the couch. I felt a twinge of guilt. I never realized how tiresome my mother's job actually was. She busted her body working as a single parent, and all I could do was bash her thinking about how much of an absent parent she was. I was being selfish by doing that, right?

I gulped, watching her state, "I'm sorry, mom," I said.

She paused, and sat upright to face me, "Why are you sorry?" she asked.

For everything. For all that I put her through. For existing.

"Take your pick," I said.

She took in a sharp breath. "I may not say it often, but I'm not mad at you," she paused for a moment, "Well, not anymore."

So, she was upset with me for a bit? I guess it was rightfully so. Clearly she was referring to the killing my dad thing, of course.

"I-I never wanted to kill him," I started, "I could've never anticipated that he would've reacted the way he did. I mean I knew he would want to rip my head off or. something, but take his own life?"

My mom shook her head, staring at the floor, "I know... I know," she repeated.

Bringing all of this up again was risky. It could quite possibly be rubbing salt in the wound, but I felt like this conversation was an important one.

"I just can't believe he did that," I said, in disbelief. It had almost been a year, but the shock hadn't really worn off.

There are so many ways to deal with an issue, even if the issue seems like one that could break your reparation. Killing yourself shouldn't' ever even be an option. It shouldn't even be a last resort. In my dad's case, honestly, it didn't even feel like a last resort; it felt like the first one. Was my dad really that done with all of us? Was my dad really that done with me? How strong was our relationship that one little "mistake" on my end could cause him to end his life—to no longer be in existence.

Frankly, it seemed kind of selfish of me. How dare he take his own life? How dare he put that guilt on me for the rest of mine? Honestly, what did I do that was so wrong? I liked a boy, that's all I did.

"There's so much you don't know, Tara," my mom said.

My stare hardened on her, "Then tell me mom because I want to know."

She pursed her lips, "You want to know, now?" she asked. I inferred from the tone that she expected me to backtrack and hear the answer later. I wanted to hear whatever it was that she wanted to say. More than anything though, I felt like I could finally handle whatever it was too.

"His sister was killed because she attempted to run away from an arranged marriage to pursue a love marriage," My mom explained.

My heart dropped. So, we had an aunt, a bhua? A bhua, by the way, is the Punjabi word for dad's sister, pronounced (boo-uh.)

My mom watched my puzzled expression carefully, and she continued, "She was your dad's life, his best friend. From what I heard, they were two peas in a pot, that was until she met her boyfriend, Anam."

"And, dad hated him?" I asked.

"No, actually," my mom said, "He actually really loved Anam from what I heard. I mean since his sister and him were joint at the hip, so of course Anam loved your dad too."

I felt confusion wash over me. "So, if dad knew our pooja picked out a great guy, why was he so against love marriages?" I asked.

My mom sighed, "He was conflicted, Tara," she said, "He loved Anam, but your father's father despised him."

Ah, things were finally making sense.

"Your dad was often put in the middle of arguments, he was often the communicator between the two arguing parties and he was being ripped apart. One part of him loved Anam and his sister and didn't want to do anything to upset them. The other part of him, though, was unconditionally devoted to his father. He was significantly younger than his sister, so his father's guidance was also important to him," my mom explained.

Grandma was never in this story because she just was never in my dad's life. She divorced my grandfather, back when divorces were incredibly taboo and she had a new family.

"Wow, that's tough," I said.

My mom nodded. "Then, one night when your dad knew his sister was going out to meet Anam, his father caught on somehow too. He yanked your dad out of the room, and questioned him unbearably. Your dad was resilient, though he didn't let up."

I smiled, I loved that side of my dad. I wished I had gotten to see it more often.

"Your grandmother however was not having it. He began relentlessly torturing him, burning his skin, slapping him, punching him. And, honestly, Tara, how much of that cab you physically tolerate before you just have to spill," she said.

Oh no, I could see where this story was going.

"So he did what he had to do, he told. He said, that his sister was meeting up with Anam, and all of your grandfather's suspicions were confirmed. Your dad was consumed by guilt but he was let off the hook. His sister however was not that lucky. She was beaten until she bled, and she cried these loud cries. Cries your dad still had nightmares about. Meanwhile, your dad was locked in his room, forbidden to come out. All he heard was thud after thud, until it all went quiet. His sister had died and so did a piece of your father's soul. He was only a child, and for the rest of his life, he felt responsible for killing his own sister."

My stomach was twirling and I felt like both crying and throwing up. I couldn't believe that my dad carried that burden around with him for all these years, and my brother and I didn't manage to figure it out.

It was also kind of eerie that he always felt responsible for killing his own sister, and I felt that way about my father. If he knew how much pain was associated with that feeling, why would he pass it on to me?

I kind of understood him in other ways better now, though. I see why he acted so rash now. His past experiences must've triggered something within him.

"Wow..." I said, unable to organize my thoughts, "I don't know what to say."

My mom nodded, "I know, it's a lot," she said.

I shook my head, "Yeah, it is, I just can't believe he never told us," I said.

My mom nodded, "It's a lot to tell," she said.

I knew it was, but it felt odd that my dad concealed such a big part of his life. He left out a whole sibling, a whole part of his life. How many fun stories did he have that included her that he just couldn't tell? How many of her little quirks did he pick up? Where was Anam now, and did he know what happened?

"He had a whole sister," I said, still in disbelief.

My mom slightly smiled, "And her name was Tara," she said.

My eyes practically bulged out of my head. No freaking way. He named me after his sister? My head was spinning; this was a lot to process. I would be thinking about this for days now, and I knew it.

My mom stood up, and I watched her intently. Was she leaving? How could she just drop this bomb on me and then leave?

"I'm just going to change, I'll be back," my mom said. It was as if she read my thoughts.

"Okay," I said, faintly.

Maybe it was good for my mom to give me a minute alone. This was a lot to process. My dad named me after his dead sister who kind of made the same "mistake" I did. Oh god, how bad must've it felt for my dad to experience seemingly the same thing twice?

I guess it wasn't the same thing. I wasn't brutally beaten to death, but the old feelings within my father probably ignited.

Minutes later, my mom came back with a cup of tea and handed it to me.

"Here," she said, handing the cup to me.

I smiled, grabbing it, "What about for yourself?" I asked.

"I don't like tea," she said. She knew that I did though.

It was kind of bittersweet spending this time with my mom. I could tell we both longed for it, but the topic was quite a bitter one.

I felt like asking her something, but I was scared to ruin the moment. Maybe I should just try.

"Uh, mom," I hesitated, "Could I ask you something?"

"Yeah," she said, simply.

"The thing I did... the one that killed dad, did you think that was wrong?" I asked.

The answer should be a simple "yes." Something inside of me urged me to ask, though.

She scanned the room, "It's not really black and white, Tara. I definitely thinking lying to us and going behind our backs was wrong. Our reputations were on the line, but as in the action itself, loving that Ezra boy, no I don't think it was... uh, inherently wrong."

I raised my eyebrows; that was a loaded answer. "Really?" I asked.

"Tara," my mom said, "Loving someone is beautiful, it's just all the things that came with it that really made everything implode."

I guess making everything implode was code for killing my father.

My mom paused. "I can't help, but think that in any other circumstance, your father would like that Ezra boy. I think I might agree with him, too."

I raised my eyebrows, "You'd like him?" I asked, in astonishment. The amount of shock surging through me was insane.

My mom nodded cautiously, "Well, again, if the circumstances were different, of course."

"Of course," I affirmed.

We had a moment of awkward silence. This conversation felt refreshing, and though it was a difficult one, I was thankful for it.

My mom glanced towards the stairs, "You know," she said, slightly smiling, "If I could pick any guy for you, it'd be a guy like Varun."

My heart rate picked up. I blinked quickly, watching my mom, too afraid to say anything. What if I spilled something about these unknown feelings for Varun surfacing.

"He's a sweet boy, and not to mention very handsome," she said.

I didn't nod or anything. I just stared straight at her.

My mom studied my expression before saying, "But, not him, so I guess someone like him," she said.

I was curious, why not him, but someone like him? My fingers fidgeted against each other. I stared at my hands.

"Not him?" I asked, monotonously.

My mom smiled, almost expecting my reaction. "Well, not yet. If you and him are single in the future and we could arrange something... why not?" she said.

I smiled. Sure, why not? It was all a hypothetical anyways.