Carlos sat in the plush hotel lobby, his footRowan slouched in the plush armchair of the hotel lobby, his phone idly scrolling in his hand as he waited for his mother. The hum of conversation and the clink of coffee cups filled the air, but he barely noticed, his eyes flicking toward the entrance every few minutes. When his mother finally appeared, she glided through the revolving doors, a vision in a vibrant crimson silk sari, its intricate gold embroidery catching the light. The pallu draped elegantly over her shoulder, and her gold jhumkas gleamed as she moved. Rowan’s brow furrowed.

“Mom, you’re in America now,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You should dress like they do.”

The words hung in the air, and before he could process what was happening, a strange warmth enveloped him. His jeans and hoodie melted away, replaced by the very sari his mother wore. The silk clung to his frame, heavy with gold zari work, the emerald-green blouse beneath tight against his chest. His eyes widened as he glanced down, catching the shimmer of gold eyeshadow and the weight of bold kohl lining his eyes. Deep red lipstick coated his lips. Gold jhumkas dangled from his ears, bangles clinked on his wrists, and a nose ring---a nose ring---pinched lightly at his nostril. His feet, now in ornate gold juttis, felt oddly delicate, and a silk brocade clutch rested in his lap.

Panic surged. He tried to stand, to run, but his body wouldn’t move. The chair seemed to hold him in place, the weight of the sari anchoring him further. His mother’s eyes twinkled with something unreadable---amusement, perhaps, or a lesson waiting to unfold.