It had been an exhausting day, and all Priya wanted was to disappear into the quiet sanctuary of her room. Tomorrow was Sunday, and for that, she was grateful—a day to lie in bed, shutting out the world and the burdens that came with it.

Her phone vibrated again, the screen lighting up with her aunt’s name for the fifth time that day. Priya frowned. She hadn’t answered earlier because of work, but now the repeated calls gnawed at her. Something felt wrong. With a hesitant sigh, she swiped to answer.

“Hello?” she said softly, unsure of what awaited her on the other end.

“Priya…” her aunt’s voice broke through, trembling with grief.

Priya’s chest tightened. “Is everything okay?” she asked cautiously.

There was a pause, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “Your mother… she killed your father,” her aunt said, her words cracking under the weight of emotion.

Priya froze, the words not fully registering. “What?” she whispered. “I didn’t understand. Can you… can you repeat that?”

Her aunt’s voice shook as she replied, “Your mother killed your father. The police have arrested her. Come home soon.”

The line went dead before Priya could respond.

For a moment, she stood still, the phone still pressed to her ear. Her mind struggled to comprehend what she had just heard. Slowly, the truth began to sink in.

Her father was dead. Her mother had killed him.

What shocked her the most wasn’t his death—it was who had taken his life. It was her mother, not the other way around.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but they weren’t for her father. She didn’t cry for the man who had made their lives hell, for the man who had drained every ounce of joy from their home. No, her tears were for her mother.

For the first time in her life, Priya felt pride—pride in the woman who had endured so much pain in silence and had finally, finally stood up for herself. Her mother had found the strength to break free, even if it meant breaking everything else in the process.

The railway station buzzed with activity as Priya arrived, her mind clouded with the weight of her decision. She approached the ticket counter and asked for a ticket to Pondicherry.

“The next train to Pondicherry will arrive in two hours,” the man behind the counter said.

Priya nodded and purchased the ticket. She wandered to a bench near the platform and sat down, her hands clutching the thin paper that represented her journey.

As she waited, her gaze fell on a little girl playing joyfully with her father nearby. The child’s laughter rang out, unrestrained and full of innocence. The father smiled warmly, his eyes filled with love and tenderness as he lifted the girl into the air, twirling her around.

Priya couldn’t look away. The scene stirred something deep within her—a strange mix of yearning and bitterness. How does it feel to grow up in a family like that? She wondered. To have a father who saw you as a treasure rather than a burden?

Her own memories surfaced like unwelcome ghosts. Her father had never looked at her with love. Instead, his gaze was sharp, cold, and filled with disgust, as though she were an uninvited guest in his life.

He had beaten her for reasons she could never understand, sometimes for no reason at all. Home was never a refuge—it was a place she avoided, tiptoeing through her days to escape his wrath.

When she turned twenty, she had finally found the courage to leave. Seven years had passed since that day, and not once had she returned.

Her mother had been no better. Priya’s resentment toward her mother ran deeper, laced with betrayal. While her father inflicted the physical pain, her mother stood by, silent and complicit. Worse, she blamed Priya for being born a girl—a daughter her father had never wanted.

Her mother had absorbed her father’s anger and directed it at Priya. She became another source of pain, another voice reminding her that her existence was a mistake. On the rare occasions, Priya called home, her mother’s voice on the other end of the line was always cold, indifferent.

Now, sitting on the bench, Priya clenched the ticket in her hand. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to go back. Perhaps it was a sense of duty, or perhaps it was something else.

The sound of the little girl’s laughter faded as the father and child walked away, leaving Priya alone with her thoughts. The bench felt harder beneath her, the minutes stretching endlessly as she waited for the train that would carry her closer to a past she had spent years trying to escape.

Priya arrived in her hometown early in the morning, the clock ticking past 6:30. Exhaustion clung to her like a shadow, and the thought of losing her one day of rest filled her with irritation. So much for my Sunday, she thought bitterly.

She had no intention of seeing her father’s lifeless body or attending any of the ceremonies held in his memory. There was nothing left for her to feel—no grief, no regret, and certainly no forgiveness. She was here for one reason only: her mother. Once she saw her, she planned to leave immediately.

Her job awaited her, and she couldn’t afford to miss it. The image of her manager’s face flashed in her mind, his temper as volatile as her father’s had once been. If she didn’t show up for work tomorrow, she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to make her life miserable.

At her aunt’s house, she asked where her mother was. Her aunt, her voice laced with worry, told Priya that her mother was in the hospital.

Priya froze. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her aunt sighed heavily. “Your father beat her badly,” she said. “He almost killed her.”

Those words struck Priya like a blow. Even in death, her father’s shadow loomed large, his cruelty etched into the lives he left behind. Without another word, Priya turned and made her way to the hospital.

She kept her head low as she walked, her thoughts swirling. Her mother had endured so much—perhaps too much. For all the anger Priya harbored toward her, she couldn’t deny the weight of her mother’s suffering. A part of her felt resentment still, but another part, buried deep, felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years: pity.

By the time she reached the hospital, the sun was casting its pale morning light over the town.

As Priya approached the hospital room, she noticed a policeman standing by the door. His stern gaze landed on her as she neared.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice calm but firm.

“I’m her daughter,” Priya replied quietly.

He nodded and stepped aside, allowing her to enter.

Inside, the atmosphere was heavy. Her mother lay awake on the hospital bed, but there was no life in her eyes. Bruises covered her face, and her leg was in a cast, suspended above the bed. The sight was jarring, but what struck Priya the most was her mother’s emptiness.

Priya took a tentative step forward. Her mother didn’t acknowledge her presence. She stared out the window, her gaze distant, as though she were lost in a world far from this room.

Priya hesitated, unsure of what to say. Words danced on the edge of her tongue but refused to come out. She stood there in silence, her feet rooted to the floor. Her mother’s brokenness was palpable, and it swallowed the room whole.

For what felt like an eternity, Priya simply stood there, the silence pressing down on her like a heavy weight. It wasn’t the kind of quiet she had ever known before—it was suffocating, deafening. For the first time, she truly understood what it meant when people said, silence can be too loud.

Finally, she gathered the courage to speak. “Why did you kill him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her mother didn’t answer. Her gaze remained fixed on the window, unflinching and detached. Priya waited, hoping for even the slightest reaction, but there was none.

Thirty more minutes passed in that unbearable silence. Priya shifted on her feet, the words she wanted to say caught somewhere between anger and compassion. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. What could she say that would matter?

At last, she broke the stillness. “I’m going back,” she said softly. “Get well soon.”

Her mother remained silent, her eyes never leaving the window.

Priya turned to leave, but before stepping out, she glanced back one last time. Her mother’s figure looked so small, so fragile, and yet so unyielding in her silence. Priya swallowed hard and walked out of the room, leaving the heavy quiet behind her.

She wondered why her mother wasn’t speaking, why she had come all the way here. A wave of frustration washed over her. Why did I bother? She thought. I should have just stayed home. What a waste of time. The exhaustion from the long journey and the emotional weight of the day weighed heavily on her.

She couldn’t understand her mother. But one thing was certain—she pitied her. A fleeting thought crossed her mind, May she find the better life she deserves in her next life. The thought was unexpected, yet strangely comforting. If there were another life, she prayed she wouldn’t end up with her mother and father again. In this life, she had witnessed all the suffering. She hoped that in her next life, she would be blessed with a family where she could feel loved, where she could finally experience the care and warmth she had always longed for.

.    .    .