Page 85 of Scars and Crowns

"I mean it."

Sara's shoulders slump. "I don't want you to miss it because of me."

"It's only a fair."

"But you wanted to go too."

Anamika smiles faintly. "My favourite place is wherever you're feeling better."

Sara shakes her head stubbornly. "No. You've been excited all morning."

"I've been excited because you were excited."

"Mumma . . . " Her lower lip starts to wobble. "You promised."

"I promised we'd go when everyone was alright."

"I'm alright."

"You pushed away your favourite food."

"I wasn't hungry."

"You've never not been hungry." Sara opens her mouth. Closes it again. She knows she's lost that particular argument. The conversation circles like that for several minutes. Sara insisting she's well enough. Anamika refusing to move an inch away from her. Neither of them raising their voice. Neither giving way. Watching them, I slowly realise they're arguing about two entirely different things.

Anamika thinks she's protecting her daughter. Sara thinks she's ruining her mother's afternoon. Children have a remarkable way of blaming themselves for things no one else ever would. And guilt . . . Guilt has a familiar shape. I've seen it on Anamika's face often enough to recognise it now.

The quiet belief that her needs to inconvenience other people. Somehow . . . Without meaning to . . . Sara has learned the same lesson. I can't let that stay. I crouch beside them. Anamika looks at me expectantly. She's already certain I'll agree with her.

"Let's go."

She stares. "What?"

"Half an hour."

Her eyebrows draw together. "Yuvaan . . . "

"We'll go." I glance at Sara. "Half an hour." Then back to Anamika. "We'll be back before she even wakes up."

Her expression hardens. "She's unwell."

"I know."

"I'm not leaving her."

"I know."

She looks almost offended that I'm pushing. I lower my voice. "Look at her."

Anamika frowns. "I am looking at her."

"No." I shake my head gently. "Really look." Her eyes move back to Sara. This time she notices what I'd hoped she would. The tiny crease between Sara's eyebrows. The anxious way she's studying her mother's face. The hesitation. The guilt.

Not pain.

Guilt.

I see the exact moment Anamika understands. Her shoulders soften. Just a little. "She thinks she's stopping us," I murmur quietly. "I don't want her carrying that." Anamika closes her eyes briefly.