Every morning started with a reminder of my displacement.
The dining table, once my throne, had become a stage for my parents to perform their newfound devotion to Meera. I watched silently as they hand-fed her, their eyes sparkling with an affection that seemed to have evaporated for me. It wasn't just jealousy; it was the realization that in my own home, my parents had slowly transformed into my enemies.
The rules of the house had been rewritten overnight. If I made a mistake—even a minor one—there was no mercy. No explanation was ever enough. But Meera? She could set the house on fire and they would probably apologize to her for the heat.
"She's two years younger than you, Viraaj! Have some shame!" my mother would snap whenever I tried to reclaim my own belongings. My toys, my books, my space—nothing belonged to me anymore. If I fought for my rights, I was 'selfish.' If I stayed silent, I was 'bitter.'
My value
The phrase 'She's younger than you' became the poison I was forced to drink every single day. It boiled my blood. Age didn't make her innocent; it just made her a more clever thief.
But the worst day was yet to come. It was the day I had worked so hard for—the day I wanted to make my parents proud, to show them the man I was becoming. I wanted them to look at me with that old spark in their eyes.
But even on that day?