At dinner, Vivaan pushed dal and rice into little lumpy hills and hardly looked up. The table was crowded with papers, a glowing laptop, and the smell of cumin. When Mamma Anya asked, “More rice?” he gave the tiniest shrug.

The hurt hung around him like a rain cloud. Mamma Anya noticed at once, but she kept her voice soft. She touched his shoulder and asked, “Hard day, hmm?” Vivaan blinked fast and stared at his plate.