Sajni Patel - The Trouble with Hating You

M y mom absolutely loved the crap out of WhatsApp. She didnt know how to text, but she could do anything on WhatsAppincluding sending me a half dozen pictures of the guy she and my dad had chosen for me. And by chosen, I meant the one guy who had even agreed to meet me. Which was a feat in itself, to be honest. He must not have heard about me.

Now my parents were convinced that he was the one, because hed been the only one to not turn and run from the mere whisper of the name Liya Thakkar.

I had absolutely zero interest in allowing my father to arrange my marriage to anyone. While my friends may have ended up in perfectly content matches, I couldnt give in to the archaic practice of this whole arranged marriage business. Or marriage in general. Or commitment, for that matter. No. Freaking. Thank. You.

If I wanted to answer to a man for the rest of my life, Id just live with my father. Thanks to a culture where our twenties meant draconian aunties swooping in to play matchmaker, I had to battle the nauseating notion of lifelong commitment.

Speaking of the devil from whose loins I came, Dads name flashed across my cell phone screen for the twentieth time this week, but I muted the ringer. This was likely another demand that I meet this suitor hed so precisely picked. After all, as one of his multiple voicemails pointed out, finding a qualified man who would even consider me had been a strenuous five-year hunt. Given my reputation and all. We had to act fast to secure this guy before another woman lured him away. I mean, hell, let her drag him away. It would make my life that much easier.

Yethere I was, at my parents house because Momma promised this was just an ordinary dinner, just the three of us, and nothing more.

I checked the rearview mirror of my gray Lexus as I drove to their house in the Woodlands on the outskirts of Houston. The car had been a gift to myself, a reminder of how far Id come and all that Id accomplished, including my recent promotion. Also, it was physical proof that I didnt need a man to take care of me.

The sun was out, but the towering tree canopy shaded almost every inch of my parents charming street. When the houses were built years ago, the developer made a point to cut down as few trees as possible, thus pairing fairly contemporary homes with as much untouched nature as possible.

Even though I hadnt always enjoyed spending time with my parents growing up, I loved the neighborhood, and the nostalgia thrust me back to all those mornings running with other kidsthe wind in my hair, the faint smell of cedar and cypress trees, and the giggles of girls.

Nostalgia was the past. The present held a different meaning, as was apparent when I parked on the street, providing plenty of room to escape. Why? Because Dad and I had our differences. So I drew a breath, in and out, and reminded myself that Momma was my sole purpose for coming today. She was the calming one, the nurturing one, the only person in my family worth spending time with, and the source of my unconditional love.

The walk up the pebbled concrete driveway was much too short. Leaves crunched beneath my brown Prada riding boots, and the breeze offered a hint of iciness, almost like a foreboding chill telling me to turn around.

I shivered, adjusted the scarf around my neck, and knocked.

Momma swung open the newly polished oak wood door. The woman barely reached my chin, yet she threw her hands around my shoulders and forced me to lean down. My back gladly bent to her command and my senses lit up with pure joy from the smell of her coconut hair oil and rosewater perfume. She smelled like home.

We hugged a few seconds longer. It always hurt to let her go, like maybe shed wither away. Hugging her was the only way I felt like I could protect her.

She pulled back and swatted the air, her eyes moist. Why do you always knock? You have a key.

I removed my boots outside the door and followed her inside, the decorated tiles cold beneath my socks. I know, but its your house, your privacy.

We knew you were coming. What were you going to interrupt, huh? She smiled that genuine, heartfelt smile of hers, the one that made my heart ache because it had become a rare sight over the years.

The spicy aromas of curried vegetables and buttery roti wafted from the kitchen, rolled through the hallway, and greeted me in the foyer. My mouth instantly watered. Who didnt melt a little when they smelled their mothers home cooking?

As I made my way down the hall, I saw Dad sitting on the couch in the family room across from the kitchen. His khaki-covered legs were crossed, and a newspaper was in his hand. The gentle swish of turning pages filled the silence as I waited for his acknowledgment, but after a few cold seconds, I said, Hey, Dad.

Liya, he stated in that impassive, flat tone of his.

Nice. Not even a smile or eye contact. Something in that shuffling newspaper mustve been pretty important.