Chapter 3: The Price of Sacrifice

As soon as I finished speaking—

“Ananya.” Priya’s voice cut in, stern. I looked up again. Meera’s eyes were already red, tears threatening to fall.

Her tears shimmered, threatening to spill over, and for a second, I saw the same vulnerability in her that I felt inside myself. Priya’s eyes narrowed, warning me not to escalate the situation.

Seeing Meera about to cry, Aarav grew agitated again. “Maa, don’t cry. You’re bad!” He flung the medicine bowl at me once more.

The little bowl clanged against the marble floor, sticky syrup splattering onto my feet and staining my kurta. Aarav’s voice rose in distress, his arms reaching for Meera, his cheeks flushed red with frustration.

[Bas karo, yaar 😢 Supporting character ki toh life hi khatam ho gayi.]

[The supporting character can only accept her fate. Next, the male lead will arrange for the heroine to be Aarav’s private tutor.]

The sting of public judgment—just like nosy neighbours discussing who was seen with whom—gnawed at me. Was this all I was, a placeholder until the real story began?

Seeing the plot foretold in the comments, I ignored the brown medicine staining my kurta. I staggered out the door. In the past, I would have ignored myself and gone to comfort Aarav first. But today, I just felt so tired.

My feet dragged as I left, the strength to be selfless one more time deserting me. I paused at the top of the stairs, letting the echo of Aarav’s cries seep into my bones before forcing myself to move on.

Four years ago, at Dadaji Sharma’s birthday party, he took a liking to me at first sight. “Miss Gupta, you studied early childhood psychology?”

The party was a grand affair at their ancestral haveli, lights strung from every balcony, the smell of fresh gulab jamuns wafting through the courtyard. Dadaji’s heavy hand on my shoulder felt less like affection and more like a pronouncement.

My father hadn’t even processed the question before nodding blankly. The next day, the Sharma family announced an arranged marriage with my family, naming me specifically. Even if it meant being Priya’s second wife, my father was as happy as if he’d won the lottery.

He’d boasted to our entire mohalla, distributing boxes of Haldiram sweets and touching up his faded Nehru jacket. Never mind that I’d become the second wife, or that I’d barely known Priya, or that Aarav was already struggling in ways I didn’t yet understand.

At that time, my stepmother sneered: “Last month, an Oxford-educated psychologist was bitten by that little monster from the Sharma family and needed five stitches.” She covered her mouth, snickering, “I wonder how long your delicate skin will last...”

Her laughter still echoed in my ears—sharper than the grind of the chakki at the back of our house. Even now, I could feel the sting of her words every time Aarav acted out.

But a month later, I registered my marriage with Priya. She used the same tone she used for business negotiations to tell me:

“Every Wednesday and Friday night, accompany Aarav for sensory integration training. Saturday mornings, take him out to the park.”

Her instructions came as clearly as the daily timetable at school assembly. I nodded, clutching my new mangalsutra, trying to memorise every detail of Aarav’s routine.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, rain poured down. I clutched the newly issued marriage certificate, my knuckles white. It felt less like a marriage, and more like signing an employment contract.

The monsoon’s steady drumming against the window blurred the city lights, making me feel small and out of place in this mansion. The certificate felt cold and heavy, as if it belonged to someone else.