My phone buzzed at 9pm. New group chat: FAMILY DINNER PLANNING. 14 people. I know none of them. Wrong number, clearly. I went to tap Leave. Then Grandma texted: "I am bringing my famous biryani Sunday. Everyone say what you are bringing." The replies rolled in. Kebabs. Salad. "The good plates." Then Uncle Tariq tagged me: "And what is this new number bringing?" The whole chat went quiet, waiting for my answer.

I don't know why I did it. I panicked. Me: "I'll bring dessert." Three people liked it instantly. Grandma: "Good boy." Grandma called me good boy. I felt weirdly proud of myself. Then Auntie Shazia typed: "Which dessert? Be specific. We all remember the fruit incident." The fruit incident?

Grandma: "Good. Dessert is settled." Then Auntie Shazia sent the address. With parking instructions. Auntie Shazia: "Come at 6. Park behind the white car. NOT in front of number 12, that man complains." They were serious. There was a house. There was a white car. There was a man at number 12 with opinions.

I told myself I'd just drive past. Just to look. Fine — there was a box of gulab jamun on the passenger seat. Just in case. The white car was real. The house was real. Balloons on the gate said WELCOME. A woman on the porch spotted my car and waved with both arms. Her: "DESSERT IS HERE!" Fifteen faces appeared at the window. There was no driving past now.

I panicked and put the car in reverse. The porch woman was faster. She was somehow already at my window, knocking. Her: "Grandma saw the car. It's too late. It's been too late since Tuesday." She reached in and lifted the gulab jamun off the passenger seat. No dessert, no leverage. Grandma stood in the doorway, pointing at an empty chair. I parked behind the white car. Best decision of my life.