When she opens her arms, I don’t react because I’m too busy staring in confusion. She must take that as an invitation, because she steps forward and wraps me in the tightest hug I’ve ever had in my life. I look breathlessly over at Dal, who nods at me with a shaky smile. So I hug her back. I have almost no memories of my mom, beyond vague impressions and half-obscured dreams. But as Anjali Santra squeezes the life out of me, I get a sudden, razor-sharp picture of the blonde woman from my picture kneeling down and holding out her arms. Every time I staggered into them, she’d envelop me
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