Chapter 5: Mummy’s Girl, Daddy’s Doubts

His phone on the desk suddenly lit up. I looked over and saw a photo, exclaimed: “Wow, you have a photo of Mum from before.”

Mum looked so young in it, like she was wearing a school uniform.

There were two plaits and a shy smile—like she was in college. Before Dad could speak, I showed him the wallpaper on my smartwatch: “Look, I have a photo with Mum too.”

On that tiny wallpaper, Mum was holding me when I was two, looking gently at the camera.

Dad stared at the photo for a long time, then suddenly asked: “Why do you think I’m your dad and not someone else?”

“Mum looks at your photo and cries.” I looked at him and said.

This wasn’t from the barrage, I saw it myself.

There was someone in Mum’s heart who made her sad. When I was younger, she would look at photos on her phone and cry late at night.

Sometimes, I’d peek from my blanket and see her wiping her eyes quietly, her phone’s screen glowing in the dark room. “Sir,” the uncle beside us reminded, “the meeting is about to start.”

He stood up, looked down at me for a moment, then turned to say: “Have Secretary Nisha come take care of her. Before the meeting ends, don’t let anyone pick her up.”

So the big office was left with just me and a pretty older sister.

She wore big hoop earrings and a pink kurti, her nails painted red. She brought over lots of snacks, smiling at me: “Bachcha, want to play with didi?”

“Okay!”

She brought biscuits, chips, and even a bar of Dairy Milk. Secretary Nisha patted my cheek, seemed to like how it felt, and patted it again. She gossiped: “Bachcha, what’s your relationship with our Sir?”

“He’s my papa.”

Her hand suddenly froze, and she cupped my face, her tone full of resentment and jealousy toward bosses: “Him? He could have such a cute daughter?”

You could tell Didi Nisha suffers under her boss a lot.

She winked at me, whispering conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, bachcha, Didi will always bring you chocolates if you visit.”

Mum’s work took longer than expected. When I was bored, I messaged her with my smartwatch so she wouldn’t worry.

About an hour later, Dad came back to the office, still with a cold face.

When he came in, Didi Nisha stood up: “Sir.”

My mouth was full of chips, I mumbled: “Papa.”

Dad looked at Didi Nisha: “You can go now.”

“Okay.”

She gave me a quick smile and slipped out. After the office door closed, he walked over and sat down: “Your mum still hasn’t contacted you? Maybe she doesn’t want you, so she left you with me on purpose?”

I put my hands on my hips and glared at him: “Arjun Malhotra, don’t you dare talk about my mum like that.”

“No manners, didn’t you just call me Papa?” He reached out to wipe the chip crumbs from my mouth.

His hands were rough but careful, and I felt a funny warmth in my chest. “Mum likes you, so you’re my dad. If Mum likes someone else, someone else could be my dad too.” I said confidently.

“Mummy’s girl.” He snorted.

Mummy’s precious girl?

I kept my hands on my hips and nodded: “That’s right, I am Mummy’s girl.”

He shook his head, a small smile escaping. “……”

As dinnertime approached, I touched my belly and tugged his sleeve: “Papa, I’m hungry.”

“Didn’t you just eat a bunch of snacks? Hungry already?” He poked my belly, as if checking if I was telling the truth.

“Snacks are snacks, meals are meals.” I said seriously.

“Such a precocious kid.” Dad said, then called someone to bring food.

This was the first meal I had with Dad.

The table was set with roti, sabzi, and even some paneer. For some reason, he kept looking at my face. At first, he wanted to feed me.

But I’m a big kid now. Big kids can eat by themselves.

After dinner, Mum still hadn’t come. She must have run into difficult work.

I got a little sleepy, didn’t see Mum’s messages, and fell asleep leaning on Dad.

His shoulder was bony, but it felt safe, and I dreamed of Mum making aloo paratha in the kitchen, humming an old Lata song.

I don’t know how long later, my watch rang. Half-awake, someone answered it, and I vaguely heard Mum’s voice, but my eyelids were too heavy.

Someone shook me: “Meera, your mum is coming to pick you up.”

I instinctively snuggled: “Papa, I’m so sleepy.”

So that voice stopped. After that, I seemed to be picked up, in a very broad embrace.

His hand cradled my head, just like Mum’s would when I fell asleep in her lap. Even half-asleep, I felt something inside me settle, as if a missing piece had found its place.