Page 26 of The Defiant Wife

My father sits at the head of the table reading something on his tablet. My mother occupies the chair beside him.

They're having dinner. Together. A perfectly normal sight. Except for one thing. Neither of them notices I've entered. Or maybe they do. Maybe they simply don't care.

I stand there. Waiting. The way children wait for acknowledgement. For attention. For anything.

Nothing comes. Not a hello. Not a smile. Not even a glance.

My chest tightens. Just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Enough to notice.

I clear my throat.

My father's eyes finally lift. "Oh."

That's it.Oh. Not Diya. Not how was your day. Not would you like to join us. Just—Oh. As though I've interrupted something.As though my existence surprised him.

I smile anyway.Because what else am I supposed to do?

"Hi."He nods once.Then goes back to his tablet.

Conversation over.

Wonderful.

I glance toward my mother.She doesn't look up.Doesn't acknowledge me.Doesn't speak.

Nothing.

The silence stretches.

I shouldn't care anymore.I tell myself that constantly.Twenty years is enough time to stop caring.Enough time to stop hoping.Enough time to stop waiting for things that will never come.

But hope is a stupid thing. It survives everything. Even when it shouldn't.

A tiny part of me still walks into rooms wondering if maybe today will be different. Maybe today they'll look at me and see a daughter. Maybe today they'll ask me how I'm doing. Maybe today they'll care. Then reality arrives. And reminds me exactly where I stand.

"Dinner's getting cold."

I blink.

My father doesn't look up from his tablet.He's talking to my mother. Not me.

She nods. Takes another bite.

Neither asks if I've eaten.

I stand there another second before quietly pulling out a chair.The chair feels too large.The room feels too large.Everything always feels too large around them.As though there's no space left for me.

The maid places food in front of me.

I thank her.

She smiles. Again.

The irony isn't lost on me.

The maid knows my favorite dessert. The gardener asks about my children at the NGO every week. The driver remembers my birthday. Yet the people who supposedly raised me barely know me at all.

"How's the NGO?"The question startles me.