Chapter 3: Home Frontlines

Just as I turned to leave, Ananya suddenly looked over.

She must have sensed me—my shadow caught in the flicker of the computer screens. Her eyes, rimmed with cheap kajal, narrowed as she took me in, her lips curling with disdain. In that moment, she looked so much like Meera at her most stubborn.

“Dad? Why are you here? Are you following me?”

Her eyes were full of disgust, as if I were some kind of monster. She fiddled with her phone, thumb swiping the screen, trying to look anywhere but at me.

My expression turned cold.

“I’m your father. Do I need your permission for what I do?”

[Here we go again. It’s always like this. The villain always says this—he’s just the heroine’s dad but treats her like property, acts all high and mighty, and because he never got fatherly love, he forces his ideas on others.]

I was instantly left speechless by the barrage. I was just trying to teach Ananya how to behave, but in their eyes, I’m a controlling pervert?

Maybe that’s how I look in Ananya’s eyes too.

She looked like she wanted to argue, but I added,

“You’re an adult now. You have your own judgement and ideas. As long as you can bear the consequences, I won’t care about you anymore.”

With that, I turned to leave.

Ananya’s eyes lit up, a WhatsApp notification pinging on her phone.

“Really? You promise you’ll never care about me again?”

I glanced back and grunted, “Mm.”

Her smile froze, then her thumb twitched over her phone. Her lips curled again, eyes rolling in a classic teenage gesture.

“You just say that. People like you will never let me be free. I know you too well. You’re just pretending because there are outsiders.”

No matter what I do, it’s always wrong. I couldn’t be bothered to explain. I just said, “Think whatever you want,” and left.

Meera and I have been married twenty years. Ananya is already eighteen. Ever since she was born, I was terrified that, as a girl, she’d be tricked or kidnapped by some thug. I didn’t want her to get hurt.

I admit I’ve been strict, but since everyone’s so tired, maybe it’s time to let go.

My assistant called—the meeting was over. Luckily, she’d explained things to the higher-ups and saved the project.

I didn’t want to go back to the office. The sudden barrage and learning how Ananya really saw me was too much. I could only go home.

The sharp tang of frying onions from the neighbour’s window drifted in as I entered, mixing with the stale scent of last night’s dal. The house was cold, the gas stove unused, the floor littered with footprints and peanut shells. I was fuming.

My shoes picked up crumbs of namkeen as I walked in. The hall was silent except for the distant chatter of a TV serial, the familiar jingle of a detergent ad breaking the monotony. I spotted a half-drunk glass of Limca on the centre table, condensation pooling beneath it—evidence of Meera’s laziness.

Meera, meanwhile, was lounging on the sofa, watching TV, scrolling on her phone, the ceiling fan whirring, munching on bhujia as if nothing else mattered.

After twenty years of marriage, I’d spoiled Meera into a little princess. She did no housework, didn’t work, just relied on me for everything, always with her hand out.

At first, I didn’t think it was a problem. After all, I paid twenty lakhs in dowry—if my wife ran off, my money would go down the drain.

Meera heard the commotion and called out without looking up,

“Arre, I sent ten lakhs to bhaiya. His new flat is almost ready—just transfer it, haan?”