I woke early.
Not because of any alarm, but because of the silence.
The kind of silence that blankets a home just before something unspoken begins to shift. That cold quiet before a storm makes landfall. I had felt this once before — when I was too young to name it, too helpless to do anything about it.
But now, I was neither.
Dad sat alone at the dining table, the newspaper untouched in front of him. He wasn't reading — just staring. The radio hummed low in the background, but he wasn't listening either.
His tea had gone cold.
It was March 21st.
The day he would lose his job.
Or at least, that's how it had played out the first time.
I stepped into the kitchen slowly, pretending to be groggy, though my mind was racing ahead like a clock set too fast.
"Morning," I said.
He blinked, looked up. "Hmm. Morning."
Mom moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency — but even she felt subdued. I could tell from the way she didn't hum today. No music. No casual scolding about me being late.
Everyone already knew, somewhere deep down, that something wasn't right.
When he finally stood to leave for work, he moved slowly. His back straighter than usual, his shirt neatly ironed — but it looked like armor on a soldier heading to a battle he didn't expect to win.
"Want me to drop you to the bus stop?" I asked.
He paused, surprised. "What for?"
"I don't know," I shrugged. "Just felt like walking."
He gave a small nod, clearly not used to such offers from a teenage son.
We walked mostly in silence. I stole glances at him, trying to burn the details into memory: the fading ink on his ID card, the way his lunch bag creaked slightly with every step, the fine hairline wrinkles I had once ignored, now suddenly full of stories I'd never heard.
At the gate of his office building, he turned to me. "Alright. You go now. Don't be late."
I didn't move.
"You'll be okay today, right?" I asked.
He raised an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I be?"
I hesitated. "Just… maybe be careful. With the manager. If anything feels off, maybe—maybe talk to someone first?"
He stared at me, trying to read something in my eyes. But then smiled faintly. "You're acting strange today, you know that?"
"Maybe I am," I said.
I didn't go home.
Instead, I circled back to the rear wall of the office, where a few drivers usually waited. I sat at a bench in the adjacent tea stall, heart pounding.
And then… I saw them.
Two men, stepping out of a car. Not from his company.
Consultants.
The ones who'd visit that day to 'review' staff and hand out terminations like flyers. The ones who would call my father in, cite downsizing, and give him a polite pink slip.
Unless I changed something.
I slipped into the reception lobby, unnoticed among the early staffers, pretending to be someone's kid dropping off a tiffin. I saw the security desk. I saw the visitor log.
And I saw the name.
"Manoj K., Consultant – 10:00 AM meeting with department heads."
I waited until the guard was distracted.
Then I pulled the pen from behind the counter… and scratched out the time.
Then the name.
Then rewrote: Meeting postponed. Reschedule next week.
I slipped back out just as Dad walked past the hallway toward his cubicle.
I don't know what that small delay would do.
Maybe just buy him a day.
Maybe buy him enough to prepare, or confront, or even escape the whole thing.
But in a world where every domino falls the same way unless someone nudges the first…
I had nudged it.
And sometimes, that's all that's needed to keep the whole line from falling.