Meera felt a lump in her own throat. The ghabrahat wasn't medical. It was Attachment Anxiety. It was the physical manifestation of being a mother who is slowly being erased from her child's life. "I'm sorry," Meera said. "No, no, why sorry? It's just old age." "I'm sorry I never listen," Meera said. Her voice was steady, but her hands were trembling under the table. "I treat you like a project, Ma. I come here, I check the supplies, I pay the bills, and I leave. I treat you like... like an employee." Mrs. Taneja looked down at her hands. "You are busy. You are a big officer. I am just... here." "You are not just here," Meera said fiercely. "You are the only reason I am here." She stood up and went to the kitchen. She found the steel plates. She served the half-cooked dal and the store-bought yogurt. She brought two plates to the table. "We are eating together," Meera announced.