Fiel: Desi

When his father came home from the hospital, unable to speak more than a few words, Ravi moved into the shop's back room. He worked the register, restocked the masala tins, held his father's hand during the long afternoons.

Ravi leaned against the doorframe, watching his wife and his mother hold each other in a language neither fully spoke but both fully understood. Outside, the neon sign of the spice shop flickered — KASHMIRI MASALA & MORE — and below it, a smaller sign Sofia had added last month: También vendemos plátanos .

Her mother called from Santo Domingo every Saturday. "Mija, you're still cooking saag for that man? When will you teach him to eat mangú ? When will he take you to the bautizo of your own sobrina?"

Ravi winced. Fiel. His mother had picked it up from the Dominican ladies in the bodega next door. She used it like a weapon now — la fiel de Ravi — as if Sofia's loyalty to him was a foreign disease.