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.

Grandma met me at the door, hands still dusted with flour. Grandma: "So you're the wrong number." Me: "That's me." I held out the gulab jamun. She weighed the box in one hand and nodded once. I passed. Grandma: "You're taller than you sound." She sat me between two aunties who refilled my plate every time I looked away. By the end of the night, the chat's name had changed to FAMILY DINNER PLANNING + 1. The +1 is me. Permanently.