In Her Dying Breath.

Janvi knew the exact weight of a secret. It weighed exactly as much as a suitcase packed in the dark, and the cold click of a car door locking her inside. Her parents hadn't asked if she was okay; they had only asked how she could be so 'careless' with their reputation.

Ten years later, Janvi stood in her sun-drenched kitchen, watching her daughter dance. She felt the old, familiar rattle in her chest. She had spent a decade building a life out of the scraps of herself they didn't want. She was a wife, a mother, a survivor. But as she gripped the edge of the counter, she realized she was still that girl in the backseat, waiting for someone-anyone-to look in the rearview mirror and tell her they believed her.