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The main house was a small bungalow across the yard from the converted garage where he had moved shortly before his brother married Jiya. His mother’s home was a comfortable space, furnished over the course of many years, a mash-up of different design eras: boho shabby combined with what Jiya jokingly called “immigrant chic”—Persian rugs, framed pictures of the two grand mosques in Mecca and Medina, a miniature model of the Taj Mahal on an end table, plus a hutch that took pride of place in the living room and featured his mother’s collection of souvenir shot glasses from the various cities his parents had visited over the years, despite the fact that no one in their family drank alcohol.

“I thought they were for chai,” his mother explained once when he asked about her obsession with shot glasses, one that Deepak’s mother also shared. “By the time I realized their true function, I already had a dozen.”

Lucky contemplated that story now while his mother filled a bowl with haleem and warmed up two naan on the gas stovetop, her fingers deftly flipping the flatbread.

“Did you enjoy visiting Toronto?” he asked now, delaying whatever it was his mother wanted to talk to him about.

She nodded, eyes trained on the second naan on the flames. “It was nice to see my friend,” she said. “Sabreen’s daughter has three children now, Mashallah.” She paused. “Your taya called again while we were in Toronto.”

“I hope you let the phone ring. Idiot,” he said, failing to keep the note of bitterness from creeping into his voice.

“He wants to make amends,” Huma said quietly. “He lost his little brother too.”

“We lost everything, and he took advantage of our grief,” Lucky said. “I never want to see that man again.”

Huma sighed. They had had this conversation more than a few times, and Lucky knew that his attitude was vexing to his mother, who only ever wanted to stay on good terms with the family. She was a better and more forgiving person than he was, he thought grimly as he scooped up more haleem with the naan. It really was delicious.

His mother’s haleem was supposed to have been a feature in his father’s restaurant. That dream, along with many other hopes their family had for the future, had shattered when his father had fallen sick. No matter; they had survived. In fact, by most measures, they were thriving.

“I wanted to talk to you about something else,” Huma said, interrupting Lucky’s dark train of thought.

He nodded, shoveling more haleem into his mouth. That way he wouldn’t be able to answer any queries right away.

“A few of the women were asking about you at the nikah,” Huma said.

“Do they need renovation work done? I might know a few people in Toronto who could help them. I’ll ask Hassan and Deepak . . .” He trailed off as his mother shook her head.

“No, beta, they were asking about you, not your work. They have daughters, you see, and . . .”

Lucky’s stomach plummeted. “The rishta aunties found me?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “What did you tell them?”

“That you were very busy but I would ask. So, I am asking. Is there anyone in particular you are talking to, Lucky? Some nice person you would like to tell me about?” The expression on her face was so hopeful, Lucky hated to disappoint her, even as an image of Dina, dressed in her beautiful outfit from the nikah, flashed through his mind.

“Nope,” he said, head bent low over his food.

“Are you sure?” Huma pressed.

“Very sure,” he said.

“What about the woman you were speaking with at the nikah reception?”

“You mean Dina?” he asked, then immediately wanted to yank the words back. Of course she didn’t mean her. Dina was married.

“I mean, Aliyah,” he amended quickly. “She’s nice and Samir’s cousin. Saleem introduced us,” he said, hoping to distract her.

“Introduced who?” Saleem entered the kitchen, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Awesome, you made haleem.” He stopped short. “Wait, who’s in trouble? Not me, right?”

Huma speared her younger child with a look. “Did you introduce Aliyah to your brother?” When he nodded, a deer caught in the headlights, she pummeled him with a barrage of questions: Who was her family? What did her parents do? Where had she gone to school, and where did she work? How tall was she, and did she want children? What made him think she would be a good match for his brother?

Lucky smiled to himself and finished off another bowl while his brother panicked and sweated through his answers, but when he tried to escape through the side door, Huma turned on him. “You will introduce me to this Aliyah at the walima,” she announced.

“Mom, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lucky said. “I barely know her. I don’t want to scare her off by introducing her to my mother.”

Huma wasn’t having it. “We will all be at the wedding. It is only natural that you would introduce your mother. Or are you ashamed of me?” Her lip started to quiver.

“Not at all, don’t even think that,” Lucky said, panicking.

The quiver disappeared instantly, and Huma nodded. “Good. And if this one does not work out, I can help you find another girl.”