I step into the Kumar home after six months away, my school bag heavy on my shoulder. The smell of cumin and turmeric fills the air, but so does tension. Ma is scrubbing the floor on her knees while Dadi watches, arms crossed. 'Late again?' she snaps. 'Your mother can’t even manage a simple meal without messing up.'

I glance at Ma. Her eyes are down, red-rimmed. I remember her smile from childhood—gone now, buried under years of insults.

Papa sits reading the paper, ignoring it all. Bajrangi serves tea, his hands cracked from washing dishes. Amar stares at the ceiling fan like it holds answers.

Kanchan-auntie barks at him: 'Why is my tea cold? You useless man!'

I set my bag down. My fingers tremble. This is my home. But why does it feel like a prison?

Tonight, I find Ma crying in the kitchen. 'Beta, don’t become like them,' she whispers.

But what if I don’t want to stay silent anymore?