Chapter 5: The Price of Family

Neha immediately snapped, saying my dad was ignorant, jealous of the rich, and didn’t want her to have a good life.

My stepmother’s bangles clinked as she crossed her arms, her lips pursed in disapproval. “What are you trying to do?”

My dad, flustered from being scolded, saw me come home and quickly shifted the blame.

“My daughter said it! She told me Dubai is dangerous.”

“Ritika, come here and tell your mom and sister how dangerous it is.”

He kept winking at me.

I knew what he was really worried about—not danger, but the ‘old prince’ Neha had mentioned. My stepmother was still attractive and well-maintained. My dad was obsessed with her, afraid someone would steal her away. He didn’t dare say it directly, so he used me as a shield.

I replied, “Dubai’s actually quite safe. It’s developed and has good relations with India. How could there be so many scams?”

My dad immediately got angry. “Nonsense! What about the news you saw the other day?”

He started to pressure me, his tone threatening.

I thought for a moment, then smiled. “Recently there was a cricket event. The Dubai prince spent a fortune to invite our national team. Is that what you mean?”

My dad exploded and tried to slap me again. But I was ready this time and dodged.

At that moment, my stepmother and Neha started cursing at my dad, mixing Hindi and English taunts: “What do you know, sarkari babu? You’re just jealous, bas!” My stepmother even threatened to divorce him.

He nearly dropped to his knees, begging her not to leave.

“Mom, please don’t divorce my dad—he loves you so much.”

To tie them together, I apologised repeatedly.

My stepmother snorted, “Then agree to let us go to Dubai, and you pay all the expenses.”

I nodded. “Fine, as long as you don’t leave my dad, anything is okay.”

My dad quickly said he’d go too, but was rejected by both women.

“Why are you going? Stay home.”

He stood there, frozen, like a dog abandoned by its owner, unable to hide his despair.

After dinner, he stormed into my room and grabbed me by the neck as soon as he came in.

That dinner was a silent affair—the only sounds the clink of stainless steel plates, the low hum of a fan, and the distant azaan from the mosque nearby. My father’s voice, trembling with a mixture of hope and defeat, reminded me of countless nights spent pleading, arguing, and reconciling for the sake of appearances. My stepmother, always meticulously adjusting her pallu and fixing her lipstick in the hallway mirror, seemed more concerned with her own reflection than the chaos she sowed. I could feel the weight of a lifetime of compromises pressing down on me, heavier than the humidity outside.