Chapter 1: Taking the Family's Class

Returning to the wealthy family, faced with the plotting impostor daughter and my brainless biological younger brother, I decided it was time to take my real parents’ class. "You know, even Sharma aunty from next door says, if siblings keep fighting, it’s the parents who need to look in the mirror. Tell me, have you ever heard that when children can't get along, it's because the parents have lost their sense of values?"

The words cracked through the room like a chappal slap. All the years spent outside their world weighed on my chest; my voice carried not just sarcasm, but the weariness of someone who’d seen too much. The living room stilled until the pressure cooker’s whistle echoed from a neighbour’s flat. I shifted the strap of my old canvas bag on my shoulder, feeling that familiar outsider’s chill—and inside me, the stubborn heat of someone who refused to be ignored. For a fleeting second, Dadi’s words floated through my mind: "Zindagi me himmat zaroori hai, beta." I pictured our cramped old home, the smell of chai and naphthalene. That memory steadied me.

No, I’m not here to squeeze myself into the shape of their perfect daughter. I’m here to set things right—even if it means setting the house on fire, metaphorically speaking.

There was no point putting on a mask. I wasn’t about to act the grateful prodigal daughter. If the Mehras thought I’d quietly let things slide, they’d clearly never met a girl raised by Dadi.