My mother never apologized for yelling at me—I’m not sure, in her seventy years of life, she’s ever apologized, period—but she gave me sliced watermelon as a snack, boondi dahi with dinner, and a slice of chocolate cake for dessert. Is there any apology more universal from an ethnic mother than wordlessly feeding you until you’re sick with love? Cantaloupe and sugar prasad were her most reliable forms of communication, the one more spoonful was better than any meek apology or perfunctory hug she could’ve given. If my mother felt bad about whatever she had said, whatever wooden spoon she
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