The house had that quiet heaviness that only lived in homes where too much had already happened.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, half watching a show on TV, half scrolling through your phone. The afternoon sun filtered through the thin curtains, painting the room gold.

In the kitchen, Meera moved around stiffly. Steel utensils clanged harder than necessary. Every movement carried an edge.

It had always been like this.

Ever since you were little.

Ever since your brother died.

Ever since your father and his family broke something inside her that never healed.

You had grown up learning the rules of silence.

Don't joke too loudly. Don't ask too many questions. Don't leave things out of place. Don't laugh at the wrong time.

It felt like living inside a house made of glass and landmines.

Still, sometimes you tried.

Sometimes you tried to make her smile.

Today had been one of those days.

You wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching her knead dough with tense fingers.

A small grin tugged at your lips.

“Ma,” you said lightly, poking the dough. “This roti is going to look like a map of India if you keep attacking it like that.”

For a second, nothing happened.

Then Meera’s hand froze.

Her head snapped toward you.

“What nonsense are you saying?” Her voice came out sharp, like a slap. “If you have nothing useful to do, then at least don’t stand here irritating me.”

The smile faded from your face.

You tried to brush it off.

“I was just joking, Ma.”

“I don’t have time for your stupid jokes!” she snapped, slamming the bowl onto the counter. “You think life is some comedy show? Always laughing, always fooling around!”

Your chest tightened.

Not again.

Not over this.

You swallowed. “It was just a joke.”

“You always say that!” Meera’s voice rose. “Everything is a joke to you! No responsibility, no seriousness—”

“Ma.”

Your voice came out sharper than you expected.

She stopped mid-sentence.

You felt something inside you finally crack.

Years of holding back. Years of apologizing. Years of pretending it didn’t hurt.

Your hands trembled slightly, but you didn’t back down.

“It was a joke,” you repeated, slower this time. “Normal people joke. That doesn’t make them irresponsible.”

Meera’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t talk back to me.”

And that was it.

Something in you snapped.

“Then stop giving me reasons to!”

The words burst out before you could stop them.

Silence filled the kitchen.

Meera stared at you like she didn’t recognize you.

But you kept going, voice shaking.

“I feel like I’m walking on eggshells around you all the time!” you said. “I can’t laugh, I can’t joke, I can’t even breathe without worrying if it’s going to make you angry!”

Her expression hardened.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” you whispered, tears burning your eyes. “I’m being honest.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

“I know you’ve suffered, Ma. I know what happened to bhaiya destroyed you. I know dad and his family treated you horribly.” Your voice cracked. “I know all of it.”

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes.

But the anger didn’t leave.

“So now you’re blaming me for your problems?” Meera sneers.