Three days later, I found myself at a family gathering, a rare event where smiling faces and laughter masked the undercurrents of whispered judgments and rivalries. I walked in with Laya clutching my hand, and the room seemed to freeze like a scene in a play, interrupted. My parents were the first to see me, and their reaction was immediate and unmistakable—they went pale, like they had seen a ghost.
“Maya,” my mother said, her voice a fragile whisper. “What… what are you doing here?”
The question struck me as odd. Was I not family? Was my presence so unexpected? The whispering began, a low hum that buzzed through the room like a hive of bees disturbed.
