Chapter 13

Sunday mornings are supposed to be slow. Lazy. Quiet.

This one is.

Mostly.

I yawn, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as I shuffle downstairs, my hair a mess, my t-shirt loose and wrinkled from an entire night of existing. The house is still. No noise, no movement.

Then—

Food.

The dining table isn’t empty. A plate of breakfast is sitting there, untouched, with a note resting beside it.

Eat it. I’m out.

I blink at it.

Mom’s handwriting. Sharp. Direct. No unnecessary words.

So, she’s out. Errands, probably. Groceries, maybe. Or just an excuse to escape the house for a bit.

I scratch my bum absently, stretching my arm with a long sigh.

Mom’s not home.

I pour myself some water, gulping it down as I stand in the middle of the kitchen, still half-asleep, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with my existence now.

TV. That’s the answer.

I grab the remote, flop onto the couch, and switch it on.

Nothing interesting.

Nothing worth watching.

Just the usual Sunday morning dead air—reruns of some reality show featuring people I don’t care about.

I sink into the couch, sprawling out, my limbs going boneless. My phone, which I haven’t checked all morning, buzzes somewhere beside me.

I frown, reaching for it lazily. Click the screen on.

And—

Holy shit.

Notifications. So many notifications. A flood of messages, like I’ve somehow become the center of the universe overnight.

I squint at the screen, still half-asleep. When the fuck did that happen?

What the fuck?

I blink. I Stare.

How the hell do I have this many notifications?

I scroll through the chaos—messages, pings, random tags. And then I see it.

“Class 11-B (Official)”

I frown.

I didn’t even know this existed.

It’s been over a month since I started at this school, and now I’m being added? By Arya, apparently, because of course.

The chat names blur together for a second before I focus on the most recent one.

Messages flying back and forth—homework discussions, memes, someone thirsting over some actor, a guy asking for “important notes” (read: begging for someone else’s work).

I scroll.

And then I stop.

At the members list.

I tap it, watching the names load, half out of curiosity, half because there’s literally nothing else to do.

Familiar names pop up. Some I recognize. Some I don’t.

And then—

Raj. I hover over his profile.

Click. His display picture loads.

It’s him.

Not some blurry selfie, not an aesthetic landscape or some overdramatic quote. Just him, sitting on the floor, cross-legged, in—what seems like—an animal shelter. A lazy smirk on his face as he looks at the camera.

And in his lap—A cat. A very fluffy, very unimpressed-looking cat.

I blink. Okay. Unexpected.

Raj’s hand rests on its head, half-petting, half-holding it in place, like it’s trying to escape but he’s refusing to let it go. The cat’s ears are flat, its entire expression screaming send help, but Raj?

Raj looks like he’s enjoying the struggle.

Of course he has a cat in his lap that hates him. That feels right.

I stare at the picture for a second too long. Not because of the cat.

Because—

Raj’s face.

His jawline is sharper in the lighting, the angle of the shot making his features stand out more than usual. His eyes are dark, steady, unreadable as always, but there’s something effortless about the way he’s sitting. Casual. Like he owns the space around him without even trying…which he does obviously, it’s his home.

I blink.

Nope.

Not thinking about that.

I click out of his profile and toss my phone onto the couch beside me.

Close call.

I stretch again, rubbing my face, my brain still catching up with being awake.

Raj is Raj. No need to think about it.

No need to think about how that stupid cat looks like it wants to kill him.

No need to think about how, somehow, he still looks good anyway.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings.

It’s sharp, loud—cutting through the lazy quiet of the house like a knife.

I push myself up from the couch, stretching as I shuffle toward the door, still half in that slow, Sunday-morning daze. Yawning, scratching the back of my head, blinking sleep out of my eyes.

I open the door.

It’s Dad.

I blink, surprised for a second. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

I offer him a small, instinctive smile. “Hey—”

He doesn’t even look at me.

Just pushes past, storming straight across the hall, his steps quick, deliberate.

I frown, my stomach tensing. That’s… unusual.

Dad isn’t the storming type.

Something’s wrong.

His voice comes, sharp and firm. “Where’s your mom?”

The shift in tone is instant. The air tightens. My body goes on alert.

I swallow. “Uh—I don’t know. She’s out—”

Dad exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Of course.”

Then he moves. Straight to the bedroom. Straight to the cupboard.

The door swings open with force. And suddenly—he’s searching.

No—ripping through things.

Cupboard doors fly open. Shelves are yanked. Clothes pulled out, tossed aside.

“Where the fuck is the file?” Dad’s voice is sharp, slicing through the room, through me. “I put it right here!”

My stomach lurches.

I’ve never seen him like this.

Not just angry. Furious.

He’s moving fast, too fast, yanking open drawers, flipping through stacks of paper, knocking things over like nothing else matters.

My heart starts pounding.

“Dad,” I say, voice uneven. “W-What are you looking for?”

“The contract file,” he snaps, barely even looking at me. “The store contract, the vendor agreements—the fucking lease—where the hell is it?!”

I step back, feeling a tightness crawl up my throat. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say anything.

I’ve never seen him like this.

Never seen his control slip.

Never felt the room this small.

With every passing second, the tension tightens.

Dad is moving faster, more erratic, shuffling through papers, slamming drawers shut just to yank them open again. The sharp rustle of documents, the thud of things hitting the floor—each sound feels louder, sharper.

And then—

He checks his watch.

His jaw clenches.

His entire body stiffens.

And suddenly, his voice explodes—sharp, loud, cutting through the air like a whip.

“I told her so many times!” He throws a stack of files onto the bed, the papers scattering. “Where the fuck does she keep my things? Always touching my stuff, moving shit around—Jesus fucking Christ!”

I flinch. My pulse is racing, my breath catching in my throat.

Dad never yells like this. Not like this.

He snatches his phone from his pocket, jabs at the screen, brings it to his ear.

The dial tone rings.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

From the hallway—a second ring.

Dad and I turn our heads at the same time.

Mom’s phone is sitting right there. On the dining table.

Untouched. Forgotten.

The realization lands like a punch.

Dad stares at it for half a second—then exhales sharply, something dark and sharp twisting in his expression.

Then—

“For the fuck’s sake!”

The words rip out of him, raw and furious, and before I can even process it—

He throws his phone.

The crack of impact splits through the room. The phone hits the cupboard, bounces off, lands with a hard thud on the floor.

I jump—body locking up, breath stuck in my throat.

Everything in me freezes. The silence that follows is heavy. Suffocating. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, loud and uneven.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Because I have never—never—seen him like this. I don’t think I ever wanted to.

The room feels wrong.

Like the air itself has tightened, like every breath is too sharp, too shallow. Like if I move too quickly, everything might snap.

Dad doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me. He’s still searching—his hands rifling through papers, his jaw locked, his breathing sharp and heavy.

I should do something. Say something.

Offer him water or—I don’t know. Would that help? Would that just piss him off more? My body is stuck, like my brain can’t decide whether to move forward or shrink away.

I’ve never felt this kind of static fear before—not fear of being hurt, but fear of doing something wrong. Fear of making myself visible in the wrong way.

Another drawer slams shut. Dad exhales sharply, his eyes darting around the room like he’s trying to physically force the file into existence.

I open my mouth but suddenly a noice breaks the moment.

The doorbell rings.

The sound shatters the thick, suffocating silence in the house. My heart leaps into my throat, but I barely get the chance to process it—

Because Dad moves first.

He storms toward the door, his body stiff, radiating frustration, anger, something too sharp to name. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause—just yanks the door open, his breath still heavy from his yelling.

And there—

Mom.

She’s standing outside, a bag in one hand, her posture loose, neutral—maybe even slightly relieved to be home.

Like she was expecting something normal.

Like she has no idea what she’s about to walk into.

Before she can speak—

“Where the fuck were you?!”

Dad’s voice explodes, shaking the walls, shaking the air, shaking me.

Mom stops in her tracks.

The bag in her hand shifts slightly as her grip tightens around it. Her lips part—caught off guard, confused—like she was expecting something completely different when she walked in.

Like she didn’t think she’d have to brace for impact. But Dad doesn’t wait.

Doesn’t give her a chance to catch up.

“You always do this!” His hands fly up, sharp, frantic. “Touching my things, moving my files! I asked you one thing—one fucking thing—and now the entire meeting is ruined!”

Mom’s head tilts slightly, like she’s trying to process. “What are you talking about—”

“Don’t act dumb.” Dad’s voice is cutting, furious, unraveling by the second. “Where the fuck is the file?!”

Silence.

Thick, suffocating, unbearable silence.

Mom’s fingers twitch, like she’s about to respond.

Then she doesn’t.

Then she does.

Then she doesn’t again.

The hesitation fuels him.

Dad steps forward. His breath is shaky, uneven, frustrated.

“Why are you just fucking silent?!” he demands, voice so loud it rattles in my chest. “Where the hell is it?! Move!”

And then—

The moment snaps. Mom lifts her chin. Her entire posture shifts. And then, in a voice that shakes the fucking foundation of the house—

“DON’T YOU DARE TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!”

Dad jerks back.

Like a physical force just hit him square in the chest. The anger in her voice? It’s different. Not just reactionary. Not just matching his rage.

It’s bigger.

It’s controlled fury.

The kind that makes people take a step back without realizing they did.

“You think you can storm in here, throw a tantrum, and I’ll just stand here and let you scream at me?” she demands, stepping forward. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Sharma—this house isn’t your fucking boardroom.”

Dad’s breath catches.

“You think you run this place? That I’m just here to keep track of your things, clean up your mess, take your bullshit?” She laughs, but there’s nothing amused about it. “Because if you’ve forgotten, let me remind you—”

And then—

The final blow.

“Before I became Tanushree Sharma, I was Tanushree Dutta. And I worked at the same damn position as you. So you don’t fucking talk to me like that.”

Silence.

Dad doesn’t breathe.

Doesn’t move.

Because that?

That was aimed to wound.

And it hit.

Mom’s voice doesn’t waver. Not once.

“I know what I do in this house. I know what I do with my life. And I sure as hell don’t need you screaming at me to figure it out.”

Dad’s fingers twitch. Like he wants to respond. Like he can’t respond.

But Mom’s not finished.

“You forgot the damn contract file at home.” Her voice is quiet now, deadly, mocking. “I knew how important it was. So I messaged you but you never replied. So I took it to your office.” She steps forward, eyes sharp. “Your assistant has it.”

Dad blinks. And checks something in his phone. His eyes widen.

He looks back at her and parts his lips to say something. An apology maybe.

But she doesn’t wait. She just storms in, yanks the bedroom door open. Steps inside.

Then—

Slams it shut.

The echo lingers in the house.

And for the first time in the last ten minutes. Dad doesn’t know where to look.

Doesn’t know whether to stay or leave.

His jaw clenches. His fingers twitch again.

Then—

His eyes flick toward me.

I don’t speak. I don’t move.

And neither does he. Dad hesitates. The house is still. Then he steps out. And the he is gone.

The air feels lighter, but not really. It’s like the weight of the last ten minutes hasn’t settled yet, like it’s still lingering, waiting to see what happens next.

I stand there for a while, staring at the closed bedroom door.

Then I hesitate.

Then I step forward.

Then I hesitate again.

She probably doesn’t want to talk. Probably wants to be left alone.

But still—

I knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

Nothing.

I swallow, shifting on my feet, then knock again. “Mom?”

Silence.

I press my palm against the wood, like that’ll somehow make the words reach her better.

“You know when I was in 6th grade,” I say, voice gentle, “I once came home crying because some asshole told me I had a big nose.”

Still nothing. But I know she’s listening.

“And I locked myself in my room, didn’t come out for dinner, didn’t talk to you or Dad,” I continue. “And you sat outside my door for, like, an hour. Just talking to me.”

I pause.

“I mean, mostly talking at me,” I correct. “About how my nose was regal, apparently. How ‘men with sharp noses always look like they belong in historical films.'”

A faint, quiet breath of amusement from the other side. Barely there. But I hear it.

Encouraged, I keep going.

“You also said—and I quote—’If anyone ever makes fun of your nose again, Dev, you just tell them you have the bone structure of a goddamn warrior.'”

A pause.

Then—

A tiny, muffled laugh.

It’s soft, barely above a breath. But it’s real. I rest my forehead against the door, letting out a slow exhale.

“I don’t know if this is the same,” I say. “I don’t know if anything I say right now will make you feel better.” I press my palm a little firmer against the wood, closing my eyes. “But if you need me to sit outside the door for an hour, I will.”

Silence. Then—

The lock clicks. The door opens, just a crack.

I barely see her—just a sliver of her face, her red-rimmed eyes, her fingers curled around the edge of the door like she’s not sure whether to let me in or keep me out.

She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there. Like she’s holding something in. Like if she speaks first, she’ll break.

So I do.

“You probably don’t need to hear this,” I start, my voice softer than I expect. “But I’m gonna say it anyway.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. But I know she’s listening.

“You,” I say, swallowing thickly, “are the most amazing person I have in my life.”

Her grip on the door tightens. I take a breath, exhaling slowly.

“And I never—never—want you to think that you made the wrong choice. Not for a second. Not for a single moment.”

Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something, but no words come out.

So I keep going.

“You gave up so much for this family,” I whisper. “For me.”

I step closer, resting my hand against the wood between us.

“And maybe, in another life, you didn’t have to make that choice. Maybe, in another world, you stayed in your office, built a career, never had to put your dreams on hold to raise a kid. But in this world? You were here.”

Her breath is shaky now.

“You were here,” I repeat. “And I needed you.”

Her chin trembles.

“You didn’t make the wrong choice, Mom,” I whisper. “You made the right one.”

A sharp inhale.

A shaky exhale.

Then—

The door swings open.

And suddenly, her arms are around me.

Tight. Desperate. Like she’s holding onto me the way I’ve been holding onto her my whole life.

Her shoulders shake. Her breath shudders.

And then—

She cries. She really cries.

Not the silent kind. Not the delicate, composed kind.

The raw, gut-wrenching kind. The kind that doesn’t have words, that doesn’t care about looking strong. The kind where she grips the back of my shirt like I might disappear if she lets go.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wrap my arms around her, and hold her together the way she’s held me a thousand times before.

“I’m right here,” I murmur, pressing my chin to her shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her fingers tighten around me.

Neither of us move.

Neither of us let go.