Page 65 of If I Loved You Less
“What about Asif’s job?”
“He can ... transfer.”
“But ... why? I don’t understand.”
“I want to have options!” she cries into the phone. “I want to feel like I can make choices! It’s suffocating to just bestuckhere.”
“You’re not stuck,” I say, defensive now. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have a great life, filled with great things, and it’s all because of Papa.”
“I know,” she groans. “I just – I don’t know. Papa will have to deal with it if I go away for a few years.”
“Well, yeah, obviously he’ll have to deal with it,” I say. “You are an adult. But he’ll be upset about it.”
It isn’t fair because the more careless she is, the more caring I must be.
“You can’t live your whole life for Papa and coddle him,” she says, and the words seem harsher because I can’t see her face. “It’s been ten years, and I miss Mama too, but he cannot be dependent on us, or Phuppo either, which is why I’m glad she is married off and happy in her own life. You should live your own life too.”
But what she does not understand is that it makes me happy to care for others, to be needed, to be loved. It costs me nothing to do so. It is difficult, at times, but overall, I would prefer to do more than less.
If I cannot be needed, I cannot be loved.
People love me because I am useful to them, and if I am no longer useful, no one will care for me. It isn’t hatred or dislike, but something far more insidious: indifference.
They won’t notice I am around. And I need all these people in my life to fill it with color or everything will fall to gray, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get out of it if it does. When Mama died, I was severely depressed for months, and it nearly killed me.
Naadia will not understand, for she is not the same. I am quiet on the line, unsure of how to respond, and Naadia sighs.
“I don’t want to put you in the middle,” she says. “Let’s drop it. Did I tell you about the new pediatrician? She’s so Type A. The other day…”
She launches into a story, but I am hardly listening. She doesn’t want to put me in the middle, but I am in the middle anyways, perpetually caught between them. Papa does not help by being surly, so unlike himself as of late. He used to be so happy when Mama was alive.
“Do you want me to bring anything?” he would ask Mama.
“Mmm.” She’d pretend to think. “Just you,” she’d say.
“Vo toh hai-e tumhara.” He’d smile. “That’s already yours.”
It was always teasing and sweet. They were always laughing. I feel Papa has not laughed in quite some time now, and that makes me sad.
I wish I could bring that grin back to Papa.
* * *
In the evening, Fawad comes over. Since his parents have been home, he hasn’t popped by as much, and I find I’ve missed his presence. When it is just the three of us occupying the homes of our street, he visits us nearly every other day, if only for a little while.
Today, he seems tired. Discarding his blazer, he collapses on the sofa beside me, loosening his tie. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. It rather suits him.
“How are your parents?” I ask.
“As they always are,” he replies.
With a sigh, he takes off his glasses and closes his eyes. As he leans his head back, I get a lovely glimpse at his collarbone.
He looks just like I feel. With a sigh of my own, I nestle deeper into the sofa, pulling my legs up.
“They’re leaving in a few days,” he adds. He does not open his eyes.
“Oh,” I say, thinking that is the reason for his mood. “Will you miss them?”
