In January 2011, I flew over to Chittagong — to home, my father, sister and a new arrival — a stepmother. The things I left behind: A cool job at a telecom firm that paid pretty well and was paying even better when I left it (no regrets), bunch of friends and family and the memories of depression.

As I walked into the house — half-expecting my now dead mother to magically appear on the other side — there was no one on the other side. The front door was already open in anticipation and I saw my sister walking over to me — beaming happiness — very pure, very heartwarming.

There was no sign of the stepmother. I walked around. The same place minus the familiar sights and sounds of my deceased mother.

And then as I waited in the dining hall, she appeared. A strange otherworldly feeling swept across me. It was a defining moment. A second mother.

So here I was torn between loyalties. Over the months, I did not know how to address my new mother. I could not call her ‘Mom’ — that was for and taken to death by my real mother. It did not ethically seem right. The weight and preciousness of that one title was not transferable and it could not be bought away or given away.

So I went about not calling her anything specific. I would just skip titling her when I asked her for something or referred to her like “Could you pass me the bowl, please?” and she would look around to verify if I was in fact asking her or my sister seated next to her at the dining table.