CHAPTER XXVIII
The Weight of Coming Home
As soon as I entered the house, the memories came rushing back like a flood I wasn't prepared for. The worn-out rug near the entrance, the fragrance of sandalwood incense lingering in the air, the soft hum of the prayer bells from the temple room—everything screamed home. Yet tonight, it didn't feel like a place of peace. It felt like the battlefield of truth, waiting to explode.
My mother stood by the hallway, arms folded, eyes sharp as glass. The moment she saw me, her expression hardened. Not a single word of welcome. Not a single smile. Just that look—cold, judgmental, already wounded.
And then she spoke.
"Vedehi," she said sharply, her voice slicing through the stillness, "do you even realize who you've brought with you into this house?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but the words died before they could form. My heart had already begun to race.
She took a step forward, her tone rising with each word.
"I already know, don't bother explaining. Mia called. And now everyone in this house knows you got married. Secretly. Without your parents. Without our blessing."
Her words echoed across the room, bouncing off the walls like thunderclaps.
She turned her gaze toward Sita then—my Sita—standing silently beside me, eyes lowered in respectful humility. My mother's voice trembled now, not with love, but fury.
"But what hurts the most is not that you married her. It's that you stood before us and introduced your wife as your friend. You couldn't even say the word out loud, could you? You flinched. You hesitated. Like it was something shameful."
My throat tightened. I wanted to scream, to tell her she was wrong, that I loved Sita more than life itself. But my voice betrayed me.
"You're ashamed of her," she said bitterly. "You're ashamed of yourself. And that is what breaks me."
Then, like a knife twisting in already bleeding wounds, she added, "Sometimes I regret giving birth to you, Vedehi. I regret nurturing you, loving you, believing in you. You're not worthy of anyone's love—not hers, not even ours."
The words shattered inside me, loud and cruel and unforgiving.
My heart felt like it was being dragged across shards of glass.
Then, in a sudden and shocking shift, my mother turned to Sita. Her rage didn't carry over—only formality.
She picked up the ritual thali from the side table. With the poise of tradition and the sting of sarcasm, she dipped her fingers into the vermillion and marked Sita's forehead with a tilak. She lit the ghee lamp and performed the aarti as if following a script—not out of love, but duty.
Sita, with grace that I had always admired in her, bent down and touched my parents' feet.
My father placed a hand on her head in quiet blessing, but my mother was not done.
She leaned in and whispered coldly, "Sita. So that's your name?"
Then, in a voice low but venomous, she said,
"Let me warn you, Sita. Be careful of Vedehi. She only knows how to hurt people. She doesn't know how to love. Don't make the mistake of giving her your heart. She'll only break it."
My chest tightened to the point of pain. I looked away, blinking fast, fighting the tears stinging the back of my eyes. But her words—they had already sunk in, echoing through the hollow corners of my soul.
And still, Sita remained calm. Silent. Dignified.
My father finally stepped forward and said, "That's enough, Meera. You've said enough."
But the damage had already been done.
Without another word, I took Sita's hand—needing to feel her warmth, needing something real—and led her away. We walked up the stairs, past my childhood photos, into the room that once belonged to the girl I used to be.
Once inside, I shut the door behind us, leaned back against it, and sank slowly to the floor. My shoulders shook. Not from weakness… but from holding in years of silence, guilt, fear, and love I wasn't allowed to name.
Sita sat beside me, not saying anything, just holding my hand.
And that was enough.
Because despite all the noise, her silence told me everything:
She wasn't leaving.
She wasn't ashamed.
And she wasn't afraid.
And for the first time in years, I believed… maybe I didn't have to be either.
A Past That Wouldn't Let Me Go
We had just closed the door behind us when the silence fell again, thick and unspoken. I could still feel the sting of my mother's words ringing in my ears, her disappointment wrapping around my chest like a vice. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of my kurta. Sita sat beside me, quiet but present — always present, like a calm in the storm.
I turned to her, my voice low and cracking.
"I'm sorry, Sita… I never told anyone you were my wife. I know that hurt you."
She didn't respond right away. Instead, she looked at me with eyes that held no judgment — only a quiet kind of understanding. And then she said gently, "It's okay. I understand. But… why is your mom so angry with you, Vedehi? I could feel the hate in her voice. It wasn't just about us. It felt deeper… older."
I looked away, a lump forming in my throat.
"Because," I began, swallowing hard, "my mother has been ashamed of me for years… long before I met you."
Sita waited patiently, giving me the silence I needed to gather the courage to let out what had been buried for so long.
"When I was in school," I continued, my voice trembling, "I realized I didn't feel the way girls around me did. While they gushed about boys and celebrity crushes, my heart raced for girls… girls with messy hair and loud laughs, girls who wrote poetry on the back of their notebooks. I tried to hide it, I really did. But… you can't hide your heart forever."
A bitter smile flickered on my face — the kind that comes from remembering pain you can't laugh at but don't want to cry about anymore.
"My mom found out in the worst possible ways. Girls I had feelings for — some misunderstood, some scared — came to our house with their parents. They cried, they shouted, some accused me of corrupting their daughters. And every time, my mother stood there, stiff and silent, letting the shame pour over her like acid. She wouldn't speak to me for days. And when she did…" I paused, blinking hard, "…it was only to say that she wished I was never born."
Sita gently reached for my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine, grounding me. I held on tight, like a lifeline.
"My mother believes I humiliated the family," I continued, my voice quieter now. "She thinks I brought disgrace into our home — that I'm broken, cursed, wrong. She didn't just disapprove of who I loved… she disapproved of who I was. And that kind of anger doesn't fade. It hardens over time. Becomes permanent."
Sita looked at me, her eyes glossy with emotion.
"And even now," I whispered, "even when I came home, even when I stood there in front of her… I was still that same daughter in her eyes — the one who embarrassed her, who betrayed every expectation. And marrying you… just proved to her that I never changed."
I finally let the tears spill. Not the loud kind. The quiet ones — the ones you only cry when your soul is tired of pretending to be okay.
Sita leaned forward and rested her forehead against mine. "She's wrong about you, Vedehi. You didn't choose to feel this way. But you chose to love with courage. And that makes you more whole than most people ever become."
I let out a shaky breath, trying to believe her. Just a little.
But deep down, I knew one thing for certain — no matter how many apologies I gave, or how much I tried to prove that love was not a sin…
my mother's anger was a wound that would never heal.
And I had to learn how to live without her love.
But tonight, I had Sita.
And for the first time, that was enough.
To be continue....