Tangled Beliefs

Chapter-9: Hollow Homecoming

Family ties aren’t unbreakable—they’re fragile threads that require constant care to remain intact.

Sitting on the couch in the living room, I felt like a guest in what once was my home. Everything around me screamed familiarity—yet, I felt utterly alienated. My hands rested on Ansh’s tiny shoulders as he sat on my lap, babbling about his favorite toys. His innocence was a fragile thread keeping me grounded in this house of suffocating memories. 

And then, the inevitable happened. 

Dad walked in, his usual authoritative aura filling the space like an unwanted storm cloud. His face was calm, composed as always, but the faint crease on his forehead betrayed his thoughts. He sat on the large armchair, the same one I’d always seen him in, his back straight, posture rigid—every bit the patriarch he believed himself to be. 

I braced myself, knowing what was coming. 

“How have your studies been, Nandini?” he began, his tone neutral but clipped like he was conducting an interview. 

“They were fine,” I replied curtly, my gaze fixed on a point just over his shoulder. 

He continued, unfazed by my coldness. “And now that you’re back, what are your plans for the future? You’ve earned your degree. It’s time to start thinking about building something meaningful.” 

I could hear the subtext loud and clear: Meaningful means within his definition.

“I already started working,” I said flatly. 

That caught his attention. His brows furrowed as he leaned forward slightly. “Working? Where?” 

“I’m working as a personal secretary in a reputed company,” I said, my voice even but laced with defiance. 

The room fell into a heavy silence. Everyone froze—Bhai, Mom, and even Bhabhi stopped fiddling with Ansh’s toys. All eyes were on him now. 

Dad’s expression darkened as he asked, “And how exactly did you come to such a decision without consulting anyone?” 

I let out a dry chuckle, unable to help myself. “Consulting? Advice?” I met his gaze squarely, the bitterness in my tone unmistakable. “I didn’t think I needed advice from people who weren’t there when I needed them the most.” 

His jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes—hurt? Guilt? But he recovered quickly. “You are my daughter, Nandini. It’s not just about you. Every decision you make reflects on this family. On me.” 

There it was. The reputation speech. I could feel my anger rising, bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. 

“So?” I shot back, my voice sharper now. “I finally decided to be independent, to stop relying on people who think their reputation matters more than their daughter’s happiness.” 

“Nandini—” Mom started, her voice soft, placating. 

But I wasn’t done. I turned to her, my eyes blazing. “Don’t, Mom. Don’t defend him. Don’t pretend that all this concern suddenly matters. Where was it when I was shipped off to New York like some liability? Where was this concern when I cried myself to sleep for months, wishing someone—anyone—from my so-called family would care enough to check in on me?” 

Mom’s face crumpled, and she stepped back, her silence louder than any words she could have said. 

Dad, however, was unmoved. “You’re being childish, Nandini. That job—this so-called independence—is beneath you. What will people say when they hear Manish Murthy’s daughter is working as someone’s secretary?”