7. HOME IS NOT WHERE THE HEART IS
DIYA
I hate coming here. That sounds horrible. Ungrateful. Maybe even cruel.
But every single time I stand outside these gates, staring at the massive white mansion that has been my home for most of my life, something inside me wilts.
The building is beautiful. Grand. Elegant. The kind of place people stop to admire from the outside. Tall pillars frame the entrance. Perfectly trimmed hedges line the pathway. Expensive lights illuminate every corner. The marble alone probably costs more than what some people earn in years.
It's stunning. And yet every time I look at it, all I can think about is how lonely it feels.
Home shouldn't feel lonely. At least that's what I tell myself. The security guard nods when he sees me approaching. I smile automatically. Because smiling is easy. It is a habit. It keeps people from asking questions.
The moment I step inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and expensive perfume greets me.
Silence follows. Not peaceful silence. Cold silence. The kind that makes a place feel empty despite being filled with people.
My heels click softly against the marble floor as I make my way toward the dining room.
A maid passes me. Smiles warmly. Asks if I want tea. I thank her. Because oddly enough, most of the staff in this house have always been kinder to me than the people who adopted me. Or maybe they pity me, either way at least someone in this place doesn't see me as a burden.
Funny how life works.
The dining room comes into view.
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.
I look up. My father finally acknowledges my existence. Wow. "It's good."
He hums. "How's it going with the prince?"
Ah. That's what this is about. Not because he's interested in my work or the kids, he's interested in the connection.
I stare at my plate. Poke at the food. Suddenly not hungry anymore. Growing up, I spent years wondering what I did wrong. Why did they look at me differently?
Why did every achievement feel insignificant? Why did affection always seem conditional? Why did love feel earned instead of given?
Then I got older. And I realized the problem wasn't me. At least not entirely. Some people simply shouldn't be parents. Especially people who adopt children for headlines.
My adoption made news.
I still remember that.
The articles. The photographs. The interviews. The praise. What kind people. What generous people. What wonderful people.
I wonder what those reporters would've written if they'd seen what happened after the cameras left.
The distance. The indifference. The years spent feeling like an obligation they couldn't return.
A beautiful act of charity.
A terrible act of parenting.
My fingers trace one of the pale patches on my wrist absentmindedly. The vitiligo started appearing when I was younger.
At first it was tiny. Barely noticeable. Then more appeared. And more. And more.
I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror as a teenager. Terrified. Crying. Wondering if people would still think I was pretty. Wondering if anyone would ever love me. Wondering if something was wrong with me.
My father had looked at me once and sighed. Just sighed. As though the marks were another inconvenience. Another problem. Another burden.
My mother had started recommending creams. Doctors. Treatments. Anything that might make it less visible. Less noticeable. Less me.
Eventually I stopped listening. The children healed what they never broke. Children don't stare the way adults do. Or maybe they do. But theirs comes from curiosity. Not judgment.
The first time Raj asked about the white patches on my skin, he simply signed, ”Does it hurt?”
When I told him no, he nodded and went back to playing.
That was it. No disgust or pity. No trace of discomfort.
Laila once told me I looked like someone had painted stars on me. Rani said I looked magical. Jay insisted I looked like a superhero.
Children have a way of making the world softer. Kinder. Better.
Adults spend so much time deciding who deserves love. Children just give it. My throat tightens unexpectedly. Because despite everything—despite the neglect. Despite the loneliness. Despite the countless moments that made me question my worth—these people did give me one thing.
One incredibly important thing.
The NGO. The building. The funding.
The place that became my entire world. The place where twenty-seven children sleep safely every night. The place where Raj learned sign language. Where Rani learned how to trust again. Where Jay laughs so loudly he can probably be heard from another city.
The place that became home. A real home. Maybe the only one I've ever had. And for that . . . for that, I will always be grateful.
No matter what happened between us. No matter how much they hurt me. No matter how many nights I spent crying because I felt unwanted.
The children exist because this place exists. And that matters more than my feelings. More than my pain. More than my loneliness.
A small smile finally tugs at my lips. Maybe family isn't always the people who raise you. Maybe sometimes it's the people who choose you. And every single day, twenty-seven little humans choose me.
That's enough.
More than enough.