I remember the day Father died. I was sixteen, Bunty just nine. The hospital handed me a telegram and a dead man’s shoes. From that moment, I became mother, father, sister, and hope. I scrubbed floors, stitched blouses, and sold my bangles to buy Bunty’s schoolbooks. I never married. I never dreamed. I only endured—so he could fly.

Now he’s back, hand in hand with Neelam, bright-eyed and modern. She calls me 'Didi,' but her eyes say 'intruder.' She wants a nuclear family, not a past that clings like smoke. Tonight, she refused my dal, saying it’s 'too salty.' Bunty laughed it off. But I saw the flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or just exhaustion.

As I wash the dishes, my hands tremble. Is this my reward? To be erased the moment he no longer needs me?

The door creaks. Neelam stands there, arms crossed. 'We need to talk about boundaries, Didi.'

My heart pounds. This is the moment. Do I bow my head and agree? Do I finally speak my truth? Or do I walk out before I break completely?