Chapter 3: The Second Chance

It took time to realise I had been reborn.

I pinched myself, checked the calendar—June 23rd, Kabir’s eighteenth birthday. This time, I swore things would be different. I’d lived for others once; now I would live for myself.

Today was Kabir’s birthday.

The flat buzzed with life—pressure cooker whistling, Dadi bossing the maid, Kabir bouncing a soft ball off the wall. The smell of samosas and jalebis filled every corner. Guests were expected, but the real drama was in the family.

Outside, laughter and family warmth mixed with the Mumbai humidity.

Neighbourhood kids ran in and out, slippers slapping on the tiles. Dadaji read the Times of India on the balcony, Dadi arranged flowers for puja. It looked like a Barjatya film, but I knew the cracks below the surface.

In my hand was Kabir’s birthday gift.

The envelope was slightly creased from being clutched too tightly. Inside: the Sain Winter Camp admission letter—a golden ticket to new worlds. My heart pounded, heavy with both pride and dread.

It was a camp in America—something I’d begged for, using every contact and ounce of pride.

I’d called distant relatives, begged a neighbour’s cousin at the embassy. Swallowed humiliation for Kabir’s sake. The letter was proof of my love.

All the camp kids were from rich, influential families; just being smart wasn’t enough.

For boys like Kabir, it was a shot at a new life. I’d dreamed he’d come back with new ideas and maybe a little respect for me.

In my previous life, Kabir used this opportunity to meet important people and become successful.

He returned with a suitcase full of stories—industrialists’ sons, business ideas, eventually a company in the newspapers. I was proud, but lost my son along the way.

"Meera, what are you dawdling for? Kabir’s about to make a wish!"

Rohit’s shout cut through my thoughts. “Arrey, Meera, jaldi aao!” His impatience always made me shrink.

I hurried out, fixing my pallu and forcing a smile.

The family circled the table, cake already cut, the scent of wax and mango ice cream in the air.

My arrival was like a cold breeze—laughter dying, eyes averted. Dadi fiddled with the sweet boxes, Dadaji pursed his lips. Kabir didn’t even look at me.

Kabir glanced at me, then folded his hands to make a wish.

His eyes darted to Dadi before he closed them, hands pressed together, voice steady.

"Please, let my grandparents live as long as the Himalayas."

The family smiled, Dadi reaching to bless him.

"And bless my dad with a career that keeps rising, earning a crore a year."

Rohit beamed. “Arrey wah, good boy, Kabir!”

The elders clapped, faces glowing with pride.

Dadi sprinkled sugar on his head for luck. “Changa ho jaa beta, sada sukhi raho.”

They all handed over gifts.

Dadaji and Dadi gave a shiny new basketball, Rohit offered imported shoes. Kabir grinned, kissing their cheeks. Dadi wiped lipstick from her cheek, whispering, “Nazar na lage.”

Then, Kabir was about to blow out the candles.

Phones were raised for WhatsApp groups. Dadi’s sharp look warned him: “If you don’t say something about your mother, she’ll make a scene.” My heart clenched.

She whispered to Kabir, who rolled his eyes. “Bas, Dadi, I know.”

So, just like last time, Kabir folded his hands again, voice flat.

"I hope my mom and dad get divorced soon. Let my mom, this jinx, stay far away from us, and best never appear in our lives again."

The words sliced deeper than ever. The room tilted, my knees nearly buckling. Dadi clicked her tongue, Dadaji sighed, Rohit smirked. I squeezed the gift envelope.

But this time, I didn’t react. No tears, no begging.

I straightened my back, let the words pass over me. My heart hurt, but I refused to show it.

I wouldn’t kneel or offer the gift to please him.

No more humiliation, no more desperate attempts to win affection from those who saw me as less.

Rohit laughed. "Who asked you to be so strict? See now, he’s not close to you anymore. Serves you right."

He raised his brows, as if it was all my fault. “Dekha, Meera? Suffer now.”

Dadaji and Dadi mocked me, as usual.

Dadaji cleared his throat, “Child knows who really loves him. Not like some people who torture in the name of discipline.” Dadi’s sarcasm dripped: “If the mother was gentle, our Kabir would be even more promising.”

I nodded, chin high. “Maybe you’re right,” I said softly, surprising even myself.

"Hmm, since it’s a birthday wish, I have no reason not to fulfil it. Let’s get divorced."

My voice was steel. The room fell silent, the only sound a crow cawing outside.

The four of them sneered, pursing their lips.

Rohit crossed his legs. “Accha, let’s go do the paperwork tomorrow.”

I shook my head. "No, I’m busy tomorrow."

My tone was light, almost joking. “So many things to do—no time for drama.”

They laughed louder.

Dadi clapped, “See? Excuses! Never changes.” Kabir rolled his eyes. I swallowed my anger.

Kabir mocked, "More excuses. You don’t want to get divorced at all—control freak, Hitler-mom."

His words were full of contempt. My hands clenched at my sides.

I looked them in the eye. "What I mean is, it’s only noon now. No need to wait. Divorce can be done this afternoon."

I stood tall, daring them to challenge me.

Dadi glared. "Stop pretending. I’d sooner believe the sky will fall than believe you’ll get divorced. Give Kabir the gift."

She snatched the envelope from my hand, grip tight. “Enough of this nautanki.”

Kabir took it, opened it carelessly. "So flat—wonder where this cheap thing came from. I don’t want it."

His words dripped with disdain. Dadi nodded, lips tight.

He tore open the package, paper flying.

An admission letter slipped out.

Kabir’s eyes lit up like Diwali diyas. For a moment, arrogance faded. “Is this for real?”

"It’s a ticket to the Sain Winter Camp!"

The family exchanged greedy glances. Dadi’s eyes sparkled.

I took the letter back, resolve hardening. “If I’m not good enough to be your mother, then my gifts aren’t for you.”

Kabir stared, stunned. Dadi hissed, but I clutched the letter to my chest, like armour.