Page 104 of The Bodyguard Proposal

“Mom, stop. I know this change makes life difficult for you, and there will be consequences for dropping out, but I want to face them. I want to choose no. Can we figure out a way to do that together? And really, will you stop loving me if I’m not an actor like you?”

I wait. As if a punching bag is drawn back and released.

My mother is visibly aghast.

“No! What I’m saying is the Komal I know doesn’t behave this way. That’s why I’m concerned! The Komal I know won’t quit without trying. She doesn’t!”

She’s talking about Pollywood Komal.

And some of it might be my fault because I’ve shown her that version many times in anticipation of my understanding of what she can and can't handle. Or was it because it was easier, and I was afraid of being different? Evade the questions and possible pain and conflict of showing a version of yourself that you know your parent won’t easily understand.

It’s also because I’ve heard stories. Punjabi families with their kids going awry, causing breaches in their relationships and the gossip spreading like wildfire.

I’m so glad my daughter is not like this. That you are not like them.

The outpouring of pride she's always shone on me. The comparisons.

The unspoken,My good, well-behaved, smart, and kind daughter is the one I love.

I rub a hand over my face, wondering how I can articulate all that is wrong with that into words. How I’m actually wanting to be messy because life is messy, and that I’m craving to act out and discover myself, that far past the boundaries of expectations are where I experience rush and joy and thrill and growth. Keeping myself put-together is exhausting and feels like ill-fitting clothes. That I’ve got so many other layers Ihaven't shown her, afraid she wouldn't get it because we are so different... or because of the generation gap... or how we've been brought up completely differently...

“You are stressed,” my mother determines.“Take some time.”

Ignoring her, I barrel on. “Is there no way to quit the movie? Contractually?”

“Technically, yes, but this is about your image. You can’t easily come back if the industry hears about you quitting this first project.”

“I’m okay with that, promise!”

“No, we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“I’m saying no, and you have to hear me,” I say, trying again, more desperately. Doesn't she understand how hard it was for me to admit this? Doesn't she hear the truth and pain behind my words? It already hurts so much, and I’m afraid it hurts more the longer any lies live between us.

My mother's mouth softens. She's got the most sympathetic expression on her face. “It's not that I don't hear you. I just that I don't believe it. Not when I don't understand where this is coming from. Who are you trying to be? Who is this person?”

The blow lands, separating me into parts. If I let myself, I’ll huddle on this couch and have to rock myself back and forth. But also that means hearing more of what my mother will say about not knowing me—about not believing me. That what she sees is not valid. That she decides who I can and can't be. My famous, lovely, hard-working mother, who has given everything to me, now expects me to be a certain way.

If she pushes, will the guilt consume me enough to give in?

Will I give up by giving in? But if I do—if I stop fighting—I think I will hate myself. Maybe not immediately, but resentment will grow from these broken seeds, souring myself. How will I be able to look at myself in the mirror?

Not able to bear more of this, I get up and run out of the room.

Finally, tears fall.

THIRTY

I wander the house, dazed and hurt. My mother doesn’t get it. Everything I tried to tell her about my feelings and the reasoning behind my decision, she won’t accept.

Not only that, but she didn’t follow me after I left.

And now we’re separated and reeling from each other, and I’ve got no clue what happens next—until my phone buzzes. My daze is broken. It’s Nim and Reena checking in on me, something they’ve been doing repeatedly since my adoption broke the internet.

They offered to meet me at the airport, then at home, and are now wondering if they can come over. What do I say? The fight with my mom is new, and it’s going to take some explaining, and yes, I need my best friends—but also I have no capacity to talk right now. Instead, I text.

Everything about how I am quitting the movie to how my mother reacted, and how I can’t stop pacing the hallways, and how I’m feeling jumpy and troubled in my own house.

Reena offers her apartment.Stay with me.

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