‘It’s not like a degree got me and Deen anywhere,’ I say.
That must make Ma consider her words because she’s silent for a full minute, during which I finally get a chance to ask about her discount shops.
‘I can text you a list. Why do you need it?’
‘Cheap clothes. I’m not really flush with cash these days. Thanks, Ma. I’ll—’
‘You haven’t come home for dinner the last few days,’ Ma cuts me off, like she can tell I’m trying to hurry her off the phone. ‘I wanted to hear about … your new job.’
That surprises me. I was sure that Ma was happy that I hadn’t come home, that she had an excuse to avoid talking about my coaching position, which she definitely did not want me to take.
‘I’ve just been busy,’ I explain.
‘And Deen is apparently so busy these days that he barelyeats at home anymore,’ Ma grumbles, and I can read the sadness behind her words.
Just a few weeks ago, Deen and I were spending all our time with her, probably far more than was normal. Now, he is busy with the renovations, and I’m caught up in this football match. Meanwhile, Ma is home all alone, no Baba to keep her company these days.
I sigh. ‘Do you want to come to some of the discount shops with me? You could show me where they are and—’
‘Yes!’ Ma says enthusiastically before I can even finish my invite.
That’s how I find myself shopping with my mother the next day. Something I haven’t done since I was thirteen years old.
‘I’m looking for T-shirts. Plain ones!’ I say for the umpteenth time, while Ma holds up a floral dress to me, revelling in how great the colour would look against my skin tone. The two of us are in one of many charity shops we’ve been to today. This one has a mish-mash of decor; from painted masks on the walls, all the way to rainbow-coloured bunting.
‘Why do you need so many plain T-shirts? You already have five.’ Ma nods at the shopping bags in my hands.
‘It’s for … a project,’ I lie.
Ma sighs, squeezing the dress back onto a rack brimming with clothes. ‘It’s for your football team, and you don’t want to tell me. Like Deen doesn’t want to tell me about how he’s renovating the restaurant without my permission.’
I freeze halfway through sifting through the clothes rack. Ma has always been astute; I don’t know why Deen and I thought we could get away with lying to her and avoiding her.
‘We just … don’t want you to be upset. Deen knows how you feel about the restaurant, and I know how you feel about football.’
Ma studies me for a second and I brace myself for one of her signature reprimands about how she’s our mum and she knows what’s best for us. Stuff that Deen and I have heard a million times over the course of our lives.
‘I know your baba was the dreamer in our family, but I don’t want you and Deen to shut me out,’ Ma says, her voice soft. ‘The three of us are all we have.’
My cheeks burn with shame. Ma is right – we have been shutting her out. I can’t even imagine what that must feel like. Especially when I know she has her reasons for warning me and Deen away from football and the restaurant. Ma struggled with her own aspirations of being an actress. She knows what it feels like to have your dreams crushed.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble.
Ma smiles, before turning back to the clothing rack as if our conversation hasn’t even happened. ‘So, how many plain T-shirts do you need?’
‘It’s for a full team, so I need eleven. We’re … going to paint them to make them into a kit.’
‘You’re going to paint?’ Ma asks with a chuckle.
‘Aisha and Thea are going to help, don’t worry.’
By the time we’ve found all the T-shirts that we need, we’ve been going from shop to shop for hours. I’m exhausted and starving, but Ma somehow still has a spring in her step as we lug our shopping around. We end up trudging into Buttons, one of the restaurants that we used to go to all the time when Deen and I were younger. It’s one of the few restaurants in the neighbourhood that has stuck around and, of course, Baba used to be friends with the owners.
The place is packed, but we manage to find a small booth in the corner. It’s only when we squeeze in and I’m looking around that I spot the familiar face of Maya on the other side of the restaurant. She’s with both of her parents, the three of them laughing and joking without a care in the world.
‘Shit,’ I mumble under my breath. I shouldn’t be surprised – Maya used to come to this place all the time. We even dragged our parents here to meet each other properly back when we were dating.
‘Don’t curse, Dina,’ Ma says, almost automatically, flicking through the menu.
