Ink on Her Wrist

There was ink on her wrist when she came down to breakfast, a small blue smudge the shape of a comma, and her mother saw it before Zoya did.

“Chemistry homework,” Zoya said, before anyone had asked.

Her mother said nothing. She poured the tea, and buttered the toast, and slid the sugar bowl across the table, and only when Zoya reached for it did she take her daughter’s hand, turn it over, and look at the stain for a long, quiet moment.

“Your nani used to have ink on her hands,” she said at last. “All through the winter I was born. I always wondered who she was writing to.”

Zoya’s heart was beating so hard she was sure it could be heard in the lane. But her mother only let go of her hand, picked up her own cup, and said, very lightly, that blue ink was very difficult to wash out, and perhaps next time she should use a pencil.