FATHER
VIYANA SINCLAIR
I pulled out one of my favourite cotton kurtis — soft, light, comfortable — and paired it with baggy jeans. Finally. I was getting out of this suffocating bird’s nest they called a house.
Freedom. Even if it was temporary.
I bent down to open my suitcase, determined to at least look presentable.
Nothing.
No makeup pouch.
No kajal.
Not even a comb.
What kind of careless packing was this?
I stared at the disaster inside the suitcase as if glaring hard enough would magically produce a hairbrush.
It didn’t.
With an irritated sigh, I pulled the elastic from my messy bun and let my hair fall over my shoulders. It tumbled down in uneven waves, slightly wild, slightly dramatic.
Fine. Natural it is.
I stood up — and that’s when I saw him.
Inside his room.
Standing in front of the mirror.
Combing his hair.
Slowly. Calmly. As if the world had never wronged him.
I marched toward him without a second thought and stretched my hand out in front of him.
He glanced at my reflection through the mirror.
Then at my hand. I gestured him to give the comb.
Then he scrunched his nose in irritation and turned slightly away, continuing to comb his hair like I didn’t exist.
Excuse me?
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my brain.
What is this behaviour?
“Move away,” I said, stepping right in front of the mirror, effectively pushing him out of prime mirror territory.
He ended up behind me, forced to look at my back while I examined my reflection like a queen reclaiming her throne.
I grabbed the comb from his hand without asking.
“Mannerless,” he muttered.
“Thank you,” I replied sweetly, running the comb through my hair.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’ll take it anyway.”
“Don’t use all my patience before we even leave,” he warned.
I smirked slightly, adjusting my hair.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Justice Saviour. I’m just getting started.”
I gathered my hair into a high ponytail, pulling it tight until my scalp protested. Strands slipped through my fingers and fell onto the floor.
I stared at them.
Heavy hair fall.
At this rate, I’d go bald before I turned thirty.
“Perfect,” I muttered to my reflection.
After that dramatic self-analysis, I grabbed my phone, and walked out.
He was already outside,
He took out his bike, sat on it, and wore his helmet in one smooth motion.
I climbed onto the back carefully.
Successfully.
Without touching him.
Achievement unlocked.
He adjusted the mirror slightly, probably to make sure I wasn’t plotting murder again.
“Excuse me,” I said. “No helmet for me??”
He didn’t respond.
“What if you ride like a drunkard and we get into an accident?” I continued dramatically. “And my skull breaks?”
Still nothing.
I leaned slightly forward.
“If that happens… before I die, divorce me. I don’t want to die as your wife.”
The engine roared louder.
He accelerated immediately.
“Hey!” I yelped, gripping the back handle tightly.
The bike surged forward, the wind slapping against my face, my ponytail whipping behind me like it was also protesting this marriage.
“You stupid!” I shouted over the noise.
I held onto the back handle stubbornly, refusing to touch him even when the bike took a sharp turn.
Another turn.
Another acceleration.
“Drive properly!” I yelled. “I value my life!”
The city rushed past us — heat, traffic, noise — everything blurring.
I tried not to lean into him.
Tried not to admit that the speed was slightly thrilling.
“Mr. Justice Saviour,” I called over the wind.
No response.
“Mr. Unshakable,” I tried again.
This time, I saw it.
His eyes shifted toward me through the rear-view mirror. Only his eyes were visible — the rest of his face hidden behind the helmet.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
The bike stopped abruptly.
I jerked forward, barely managing to balance myself as someone behind us shouted angrily. He ignored it, steered the bike toward the side of the road, and stopped near a quiet corner.
He removed his helmet in one smooth motion.
For a second, he didn’t turn fully. He just looked at me over his shoulder.
His hair was slightly damp, strands sticking to his forehead because of the heat. Sweat traced lightly along his temple, but he didn’t bother wiping it.
“You’re the one who said you needed to go out,” he said, turning slightly toward me, helmet still hanging from his fingers.
“I didn’t even say the place though. Where are you going?” I shot back.
He blinked.
“I could’ve asked to go to a five-star hotel,” I said, faking a tragic tone. “But could you even manage that?”
His jaw tightened.
I got down from the bike, dusting my kurti as if the air itself had offended me.
He was still sitting on the bike, one foot on the ground, helmet on, staring at me.
“You want five-star? You think I can’t take you there?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes dramatically.
“You think you can?” I chuckled.
He put his helmet on. His gaze didn’t waver.
“I could,” he said evenly. “But I won’t. Because I don’t want to impress a low-life woman like you.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
My jaw tightened.
For a split second, I didn’t know what to say.
Low-life?
I looked away first.
“Take me somewhere decent,” I muttered, masking the sting with irritation. “Not your shabby tea shops.”
I climbed back onto the bike before he could reply.
The engine roared to life.
We moved.
The city blurred around us — honking cars, crowded sidewalks, afternoon heat rising from the road like steam. Buildings passed in quick flashes of color and chaos.
This time, I didn’t comment on his driving.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t complain.
I just held the side handle and watched the streets unfold.
After a few minutes, I leaned forward slightly.
“If you’re taking revenge by kidnapping me, at least choose a scenic route,” I said dryly.
We stopped at a signal. I caught my reflection in the side mirror.
For someone who mocked him for not affording five-star hotels, I looked strangely restless.
The light turned green.
He accelerated again.
And as we crossed into a quieter part of the city, I realized something unsettling—
He wasn’t driving toward the noisy market areas.
Or roadside stalls.
He was heading somewhere… open.
The place was decent.
Soft lights. Clean tables. The quiet hum of conversations blending with the scent of coffee and warm bread. It wasn’t shabby. It wasn’t small.
But it wasn’t the kind of place I grew up walking into either.
I was raised among marble floors and chandeliers that glittered like they had something to prove. Places where waiters didn’t ask if you wanted water — they simply poured it.
Here, everything felt earned.
And that unsettled me.
When we order, he will pay.
The thought settled into my chest like an unwanted truth.
I will sit across from him, sip what he buys, eat what he pays for.
Dependent.
The word tasted bitter.
I have always carried myself like armor — pride stitched into every step, independence wrapped around me tighter than silk. I learned early that money meant safety. That control meant survival.
And now?
I had brought nothing.
No wallet.
No power.
Just myself.
Being dependent on a man feels like shrinking.
Like handing over a piece of authority I fought to keep.
Like standing on ground that isn’t mine and pretending I’m not afraid of falling.
I hate that feeling.
Hate the way it makes me aware of my own vulnerability.
Hate that a simple cup of coffee can suddenly feel like charity.
He stopped the bike and got down first.
I followed him.
The place felt unfamiliar the moment my feet touched the ground. Not dangerous. Not broken. Just… not mine.
The air smelled different. The people looked different.
And some of them looked at me.
Not the usual glances I was used to — not curious, not impressed.
Judging.
Measuring.
One man’s gaze lingered too long. It crawled over my clothes, slow and deliberate. My kurti suddenly felt thinner. My skin suddenly felt visible.
I lowered my eyes immediately.
My hands began to tremble.
That tremor.
I hated it.
It wasn’t new. It came uninvited, like a shadow that followed certain memories. The kind you don’t narrate. The kind your body remembers even when your mouth refuses to.
“You decided to just stand there?”
His voice cut through the noise.
I blinked and looked up.
He was a few steps ahead, watching me with irritation — or maybe confusion.
I forced my legs to move.
Inside, the lights were warm but my chest felt cold. We sat at a small table. I shifted slightly in the chair; it creaked under my movement, loud enough to make me more conscious of myself.
He took out his phone and began scrolling, as if this was just another ordinary outing.
I tried to steady my breathing.
Then—
That same man.
The one from outside.
He approached our table.
My spine stiffened instantly.
The back of my neck prickled as his shadow fell across us. His presence felt too close.
Memories flickered — unwanted, sharp — flashes of discomfort I had buried under sarcasm and pride.
I swallowed.
Adithya didn’t look up immediately.
“I don’t need anything,” Adithya said, finally looking at me.
“I’ll just have a coffee,” I replied quietly.
The waiter nodded and walked away.
Only when he disappeared did I let out the breath I had been holding.
Adithya suddenly stood up.
My heart jumped.
“Where are you going?” I asked immediately, the question escaping before I could make it sound casual.
“Washroom,” he said simply.
I nodded.
He walked away.
And the chair across from me felt too empty.
Too far.
A few minutes later, the same waiter returned.
My body stiffened before he even reached the table.
He placed the coffee cup down.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And as he turned to leave—
His hand brushed against my waist.
Not accidental.
Not necessary.
Intentional.
My entire body went cold.
A shiver tore through me like electricity. My fingers began trembling uncontrollably. The sound around me blurred into a dull hum.
I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.
My breath hitched.
Tears burned my eyes without permission. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent, humiliating discomfort crawling under my skin.
That feeling.
That suffocating helplessness.
I hated it.
I hated that my body reacted before my mind could defend itself.
I wanted someone there.
Someone safe.
My hands shook as I reached for the coffee cup.
The porcelain felt warm against my cold fingers.
I lifted it carefully.
Took a small sip.
The bitterness filled my mouth.
I swallowed it along with the sob rising in my throat.
Sat there.
Trying to breathe normally.
Trying to look normal.
Trying to convince myself it was nothing.
But my trembling hands betrayed me.
After a few minutes, Adithya returned.
He pulled the chair back and sat across from me.
And then he paused.
His eyes scanned my face.
Confusion flickered there.
Because I wasn’t the same girl he had left at the table.
The smirk I wore like armor was gone.
My hands were still trembling slightly around the cup. My eyes—traitors—were glistening despite how hard I tried to blink it away.
He just watched.
Carefully.
Silently.
I lowered my gaze, forcing myself to take another sip of the coffee. It had already gone slightly cold.
Please.
Please take me away from here.
I didn’t say it aloud.
But my mind screamed it.
Every second inside that place felt heavier than the last. The walls too close. The air too thick.
I finished the coffee faster than I intended, swallowing the bitterness like punishment.
He didn’t ask why I suddenly looked like I had forgotten how to breathe.
He simply stood up.
Walked to the counter.
Paid.
Came back.
“Come” he said.
Just that.
I nodded.
We walked out together.
The air outside felt hotter, but freer. I inhaled deeply, as if I had been underwater the whole time.
I didn’t speak while getting on the bike.
Didn’t make a sarcastic remark.
Didn’t complain about the helmet.
He drove slower this time,
as if the road itself had grown fragile.
The wind brushed against my face gently,
and beside us rode a father and his little girl.
Her school bag hung from one small shoulder,
bouncing with every turn of the wheel.
She held onto him like he was her whole world,
her cheek pressed to his back,
her voice bubbling with stories only he seemed worthy to hear.
He nodded as she spoke,
eyes on the road,
heart clearly with her.
A small smile touched my lips.
Not because I understood it.
But because it was beautiful.
Because it was soft.
Because it was something untouched by fear.
I have never known that warmth.
To me, the word father was never a shelter.
It was a storm warning.
My father married my mother.
They had my brother first — Vihaan.
Four years later, I was born into what I thought was a family.
But families can fracture quietly
before they ever shatter loudly.
Then came another woman.
A name whispered in corners.
A scent that did not belong to my mother. My dad had an extramarital affair.
Whenever Amma gathered the courage to confront him,
the house would turn into something unrecognizable.
Her voice would tremble.
His would rise in anger and ego.
And sometimes—
No. Everytime he would beat mom.
The walls heard everything.
So did we.
Vihaan and I would cling to the pallu of Amma’s saree
as if fabric could protect flesh.
I used to cry too loudly.
I didn’t know how to make pain silent.
So Vihaan would pull me away from mom, drag me into a room,
shut the door with shaking hands.
He would sit in front of me
and press his palms over my ears
so I wouldn’t hear her cries.
But pain seeps through fingers.
Through wood.
Through childhood.
I would feel his hands trembling against my head,
though he tried to be strong for me.
He was only a child too.
The bike kept moving.
The little girl ahead laughed again,
and her father adjusted his grip on the handle
without ever loosening his hold on her world.
I watched them until they turned at the signal.
Until they disappeared.
Leaving behind the echo of something I never had.
And as the wind hit my face,
it felt less like air
and more like memory —
cold, sharp,
and impossible to outrun.
I still remember that night.
Not clearly.
Not like a scene from a movie.
But in fragments.
The smell of alcohol.
The sharp sound of something shattering.
My mother’s cry cutting through the walls.
He was drunk. Completely drunk.
Anger pouring out of him like poison.
I remember the crash of a glass bottle.
I remember Amma falling.
I remember red staining everything it touched.
He threw the glass bottle on her head in mid fight.
I froze.
Vihaan didn’t.
He held my hand, so tight I could barely breathe.
And maybe that was the only reason I did.
Thank God…
Grandpa came that day.
If he hadn’t—
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
He rushed her to the hospital.
He took us away from that house of breaking things and broken voices.
We stayed with him for a year.
For the first time, nights were quiet.
No shouting.
No glass breaking.
No hands raised in rage.
But silence has its own kind of fear.
Then one day, Amma went back to him.
She said things would be different.
They never are.
Vihaan and I stayed with Grandpa.
Maybe she thought she was protecting us by going back alone.
Maybe she thought she could fix what was already shattered.
I was at school when it happened.
Just another ordinary day.
Math class.
Chalk dust in the air.
Children laughing about something that didn’t matter.
A bodyguard came to my classroom.
He didn’t look at me properly.
Just said I had to come home.
My heart knew before my mind did.
The house was too quiet when I entered.
Too still.
Adults whispering in corners.
Avoiding my eyes.
And then someone said it.
Amma was gone.
She had taken her own life.
I didn’t understand it at first.
Gone where?
When is she coming back?
Why is everyone crying?
Why is Vihaan not speaking?
That day, something inside me ended too.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just… quietly.
Like a light being switched off in a room no one noticed was already dark.
People say time heals.
It doesn’t.
It just teaches you how to carry the weight without collapsing.
I never knew the warmth of a father’s love.
And I lost the only softness I ever had.
Sometimes I wonder how much pain a person can hold
before they decide they can’t hold it anymore.
And sometimes I wonder
if she was just too tired of fighting battles
no one helped her win.
Everything changed that day.
Childhood ended.
And silence moved in permanently.
After Amma’s death,
he came to us.
He stood in front of us —
me and Vihaan —
as if we were the judges now.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Two words.
So light.
So powerless.
He said he had made a terrible mistake.
That he always loved our mom.
That there was never any affair.
That everything we saw, everything we heard —
was a misunderstanding.
For a few days,
Vihaan and I stayed in his house again.
Grandpa had gone on a business trip,
and there was nowhere else for us to go.
The walls hadn’t changed.
They still carried the same silence —
heavy, watchful.
At night, the house felt larger than it was.
Corridors stretched like unanswered questions.
Shadows clung to corners.
I couldn’t sleep.
I walked toward his room that night.
Maybe I wanted water.
Maybe I wanted reassurance.
Maybe I just didn’t want to feel alone.
The door wasn’t fully closed.
Light spilled through the gap.
And through that narrow opening,
I saw him.
Not alone.
There was another woman in the room.
Close.
Too close.
Naked. She, beneath him breathing heavily.