Maybe the list could help. Taking a break from scrolling through property listings, I retrieved the notebook from my desk drawer and opened it up to number twenty-five:
25. COOK A BANGING THREE-COURSE MEAL 
Done. Starters: caramelised fig and goat’s cheese tart. Mains: rib-eye steak with honey-glazed carrots, creamy mustard mash and garlicky greens. Dessert: white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake. The girls are gonna go crazy for this one.
I felt a little twinge of jealousy over the girls going ‘crazy’ over his menu. What else were they going crazy over? How many women had he wooed with his cooking? The list was nearly over and so far, he had done everything on it. I hadn’t yet reached the point where he lost his journal. It took all my willpower not to forge ahead and find out what happened next in his life, but I had come this far without screwing it up, so I didn’t want to do it now.
My bedroom door suddenly burst open and Ma stomped in, the concept of privacy completely alien to her. She made a face upon surveying the state of both me and my room.
‘Maya, you need to come out of your room,’ she implored, her hands on her hips, as she took in my unwashed hair with matching unwashed face, the crumpled sheets, the empty cereal bowls which had dry bits of Frosties encrusted in the sticky remnants of milk.
‘Nah, I’m good,’ I said sullenly, putting my AirPods into my ears like a teenager. Despite everything that had transpired during the family lunch from hell, Ma hadn’t asked me anything. Maybe she had got the lowdown from my nani or maybe she didn’t want to get into an argument with me.
‘Good? You haven’t been to work in two days!’ Ma said.
‘I’ll go in tomorrow,’ I replied, still not looking her in the eye.
‘Make sure you do. You don’t want to lose your job over this.’
‘Of course not. Wouldn’t want to be more of a burden.’ I finally looked at my mum then and was surprised to see the sadness in her eyes.
‘You’re not a burden, Maya,’ she said quietly, averting her gaze. Walking over to my desk, she began gathering up my dirty crockery. ‘You’re my daughter. Until you get married, your place is with me. And when that day comes, this house will become dark and empty.’
Her voice cracked then and I was a little taken aback by the pain in her voice. In her face I could see so many emotions flash past: sadness, confusion, regret. What did she regret? Did she realise that both she and Baba always treated Malik better than me?
I thought back to something Fareena had said, about how avoiding confrontations prevented change and growth. This year, the list, was supposed to be about me growing as a person and while I had in so many ways, I was also stuck because of years and years of hiding my feelings to avoid upsetting people.
It was finally time to tell Ma how I felt.
‘I guess I feel like I take second place to Malik,’ I said quietly, picking at the skin around my nails.
‘You don’t!’ Ma protested weakly. ‘We love you the same, but we treat you differently because you’re different people. You wouldn’t respond to us in the same way.’
There was another long pause while I tried to articulate what I wanted to say next. I could feel tears brewing and I was angry with myself. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to have a rational conversation without it turning into a fight. I wanted to be heard.
At this point, the old me would have let it go, but after everything I had been through and how far I had come, I decided not to back down for the first time in my life.
‘Ma, you and Baba practically revere him,’ I said, trying to keep my voice from wobbling. ‘It’s been like this since we were kids. Whenever he would do something, like break your favourite dish or kill your plants with his football, you would blame me.’
Ma looked uncomfortable then and as always, I felt a pang of guilt.
‘That was a long time ago, Maya,’ she said. ‘Parents aren’t perfect. We make mistakes too.’
‘But it’s not a long time ago, Ma. You’re still like that. You never question him, you never ask anything of him, you never rely on him. You’re always gushing over him, bending over backwards to make him happy, make him feel loved, going on and on about his achievements. It’s tough living in his shadow.’
I looked up at my mum, hating myself for telling her how I felt, but at the same time, getting it off my chest was a relief.
And then she did something unexpected. She didn’t continue to try and defend herself. She didn’t deflect or gaslight. She put down all the bowls, spoons and mugs she was carrying, sat down next to me on the bed and put her arms around me.
‘You’re right,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’ Pulling away, Ma looked me in the face with tears brimming in her eyes, mirroring my own.
‘I was pregnant once before you,’ she said, her voice thick with sadness. ‘It was a boy and I lost him when he was nearly full term. When you were born, some members of your dad’s family gave me a really hard time for not producing another boy. They made me feel like I was inferior somehow. I didn’t care, at least I thought I didn’t, but looking back it did affect me. When Malik was born, everyone was so happy that I’d had a boy and they spoilt him rotten. They were different with me after that, better, like I had finally given them what they wanted and if I’m honest, I relished the attention. It set the tone and I don’t know why I haven’t stopped. I’m sorry.’
Tears were streaming down Ma’s face and I hugged her closer to me, my own face as wet as hers. We cried together, for our losses and our mistakes.
‘It’s OK, Ma,’ I whispered after the tears ran out, yet we remained holding onto each other. ‘It’s OK.’
After Ma left my room, I opened my windows, changed my bed covers, took a long, hot shower and spent the rest of the day with her.
I told her that I wanted to learn how to make a ‘banging’ three-course meal so we went shopping for the ingredients together and then made lamb kebabs and a tomato and onion salad with poppadoms for starters, butter chicken, homemade naan and chana daal for mains and a mango and lime cheesecake for dessert. It was spectacular and instead of waiting to have it for dinner with Baba and Malik the Muppet, Ma and I enjoyed a late lunch together and spent the rest of the afternoon watching Pakistani dramas. In the middle of a particularly exciting episode of Mere Humsafar, Ma turned to me and casually asked if what I had said about having two boys on the scene was true. My hand froze by my mouth and I put the piece of popcorn I was about to eat back into the bowl.
‘Be honest, Maya,’ she said, pausing the TV and looking at me intently. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Honestly, not much,’ I admitted, embarrassed. ‘There’s a guy I sort of like called Noah, but it’s early days and we’re just friends.’
‘What do you mean by that exactly?’ Ma probed, looking worried. ‘I’ve always trusted you to do the right thing, Maya, and you’ve never let me down. Can I trust that you’re not crossing any boundaries?’
‘Of course!’ I replied indignantly, my cheeks flushing. Was this the Bengali Muslim equivalent of the birds and the bees talk? ‘We just talk and do activities here and there. Nothing haram, I promise!’
‘OK,’ Ma said after a while. ‘But you will tell me if anything progresses?’
