I am not fourteen. I am twenty-one.
I repeat it to myself every morning, like a prayer that keeps me anchored to who I really am. The mirror never agrees with me. The girl staring back has soft, rounded cheeks, wide eyes that still carry childhood, and a body that never quite caught up with my age. In this country, people trust what they see more than what they are told. So I let them believe.
Outside, India is already awake. The air is warm and thick with incense, dust, and boiling milk. A temple bell rings somewhere down the street, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. I tie my hair back tightly, the way older sisters do, the way young mothers are not supposed to. Not here. Not when no one must guess.
Behind me, the mattress shifts.
"Didi…" a small voice whispers.
I turn instantly. He is sitting up now, his curls flattened on one side, his big dark eyes still heavy with sleep. Four years old. Too young to understand secrets, but old enough to sense fear.
"I'm here," I say softly, kneeling beside him.
His name is Ayaan. No one else knows it. To the world, he is simply my little brother. My responsibility. My burden. My proof of misfortune.
I adopted him two years ago in a moment that still feels unreal, like something that happened to another version of me. Papers were signed, signatures exchanged, tears wiped quickly before anyone could ask too many questions. After that, we disappeared. New city. New names. New story.
Orphans.
People are kinder to orphans. They ask fewer questions.
I smooth his hair with my fingers, my skin dark against his lighter brown, the contrast always drawing eyes. Arab, they might think, if they think at all. But children here come in many shades. So do lies.
"Did you dream?" I ask.
He nods. "You left."
My chest tightens. "I would never."
He studies my face, searching for something, then leans forward and presses his forehead to my shoulder. I hold him there, breathing him in. Soap. Warm skin. Safety—for now.
When we step outside later, the neighbors are already watching. They always are.
"Poor things," the old woman downstairs says to another. "So young, both of them."
I lower my eyes the way a fourteen-year-old girl would. Shy. Grateful. Silent.
They don't see the nights I stay awake calculating money. They don't see the documents hidden inside my bag, proving I am legally his mother. They don't see how my arms ache not from carrying a sibling, but from the weight of protecting a child alone in a country that would never forgive me for telling the truth.
Ayaan slips his hand into mine.
I squeeze it back.
As long as they believe we are orphans, we are safe.
But secrets have a way of growing louder with time. And one day, someone will look at me long enough to see that I am not a child.
I am a woman.
And I am a mother.
We walk to the water tap at the end of the lane, our flip-flops slapping against the ground in uneven rhythm. Ayaan hops over a puddle left from last night's washing, laughing quietly, the sound too bright for a morning meant to be invisible. I hush him with a smile rather than a word. I don't want to teach him fear too early.
A group of boys passes us on bicycles. One of them slows down and stares at me, curiosity sharp in his eyes.
"How old are you?" he asks bluntly.
I don't answer. I never do. Silence is safer than lies spoken aloud.
His friend snickers. "She's the sister. See the kid."
They ride off, bored already. My shoulders loosen only when they disappear around the corner.
At the tap, women line up with steel pots balanced on their hips. They talk about prices, weddings, illnesses. Real adult conversations. I stand at the end, waiting, pretending I don't understand half of what they say. When my turn comes, the cold water shocks my hands. I welcome it. Pain keeps me present.
One woman looks at Ayaan and clicks her tongue. "So small. How old?"
"Four," I reply before I can stop myself.
Her eyebrows rise. "And you?"
"Fourteen," I say, softly.
The word tastes strange every time. Fourteen feels like a costume I never get to remove.
She sighs dramatically. "God is cruel sometimes."
I nod, because that is what people expect.
Back in our room, I cook rice on the small stove. Ayaan sits cross-legged, tracing shapes in the dust with his finger. He hums a song I don't recognize, maybe something he picked up from the radio downstairs.
"Ammi," he says suddenly.
I freeze.
I have taught him not to use that word outside. Mother. Ammi. Mama. Any version of it could ruin everything.
I kneel in front of him, my voice calm even though my heart is not. "Only when we're alone," I remind him gently.
He nods quickly. "Sorry."
I kiss his forehead. "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong."
But I have. I am the one who built this world of rules and silences around him. I am the one who decided love must be hidden to survive.
After breakfast, I walk him to the small playgroup run by a woman who never asks questions as long as the money is paid on time. She thinks I'm his sister too. Sometimes she gives me that look—half admiration, half pity.
"You're very brave," she told me once.
I smiled and said nothing. Bravery suggests choice. I don't feel brave. I feel alert. Constantly.
On the way back, the sun presses down harder. Sweat trickles down my back. I pass a school, girls in uniforms spilling out, laughing loudly. They look my age. They are my age. No one expects them to go home and worry about rent or forged stories.
For a moment, I imagine walking in with them, sitting at a desk, raising my hand without fear. Then the image dissolves, replaced by Ayaan's face when he wakes from nightmares.
I choose him every time.
In the afternoon, I work. Cleaning, folding, scrubbing. The woman whose house I clean treats me kindly, but with distance.
"You're very mature for your age," she says, watching me wipe the floor.
I force a small laugh. "I had to grow up fast."
She nods as if that explains everything.
By evening, I am exhausted in a way sleep never fixes. When I pick up Ayaan, he runs to me, arms open, not caring who sees. I lift him without thinking. Someone nearby frowns.
"Sisters don't usually carry like that," a man mutters.
I pretend not to hear.
At night, after the lights go out and the city quiets, Ayaan curls into my side. He grips my shirt like I might disappear if he lets go.
"Didi," he whispers, half asleep, "you won't leave me, right?"
I press my lips to his hair, my voice steady though my chest aches. "Never."
In the darkness, I allow myself one dangerous thought.
What if one day I don't have to lie?
What if one day I can say it out loud—I am his mother—and the world doesn't take him away from me?
Until then, I will keep pretending to be fourteen.
I will keep being invisible.
Because in this country, under this sun, love like mine must stay unknown to survive.