I stand in the study, the weight of the house pressing down on me. The bookshelf looms—my books, my degrees, my life’s work—but none of it matters now. She told me today, calmly, over tea, that there was a possibility. A possibility that Nandini isn’t mine. That the girl I’ve raised, whose first word was 'Papa,' whose hand I’ve held through fevers and fears, might not carry my blood.

I laughed at first. A cruel joke. But the way she looked at me—steady, unblinking—made my stomach twist. She didn’t deny it when I demanded answers. Just said, 'If you were truly sure, you wouldn’t need me to confirm it.'

Now, I stare at the birth certificate. The date… was I even home that month? I can’t remember. I can’t remember.

My hands won’t stop shaking.

Is it possible? Am I losing my mind? Or is she destroying me, one whispered doubt at a time?