Two days before my twenty-first birthday, I emailed my father after nearly a decade. The last I’d heard of him, he was in Nepal, to which my mother scoffed that he’d rather take care of a couple of monks than his daughter. I said, Ammi , I said that she couldn’t say that. Someone could hear, Ammi . I wish he had heard. I am bitter and I stalk his Flickr photos and see him ringing a Tibetan singing bowl and I wish my mother’s words rang in his ears like he was getting hazed at