At 11:18 that morning, I was supposed to be sitting in the second row of my classroom, pretending to understand algebra while the ceiling fan rattled above us. Instead, I was standing barefoot behind my bedroom door, holding my breath so tightly that my ribs hurt.
My mother thought I had a stomachache. My school thought I was absent because I was sick. Even my aunt, Poonam, believed the house was empty enough for her to do whatever she had come to do.
She was wrong about one thing.
I was watching.
Ten minutes earlier, I had been lying under my blanket, listening to Mummy move around the kitchen. She had already packed my lunch before I told her I felt sick. She touched the back of her fingers to my forehead, frowned, and asked whether I wanted her to take me to the clinic.
I shook my head.
“Just let me sleep, Ma.”
“You have your mathematics test today.”
“I know.”
“You were studying until almost midnight.”
“I know that too.”
She gave me the look mothers have when they know their children are hiding something but cannot decide whether to push or wait. Then she sighed and pulled the blanket higher over my shoulder.
“Stay home, then. I’ll call your teacher.”
I felt guilty immediately.
The stomachache was completely fake.
I had wanted one day away from school because I was exhausted. Nothing dramatic. Nothing important. Just thirteen years old and tired of waking before sunrise, catching the same crowded bus, listening to teachers talk while my mind wandered toward everything waiting at home.
I had no idea that skipping school would become the reason my mother kept her freedom.
Mummy left for work at 9:06.
Before she went, she stood at my bedroom door.
“Drink the milk.”
“I will.”
“And don’t spend the whole day on your phone.”
“I won’t.”
She smiled.
“You say that every time.”
Then she left.
I waited until I heard the downstairs gate close and the sound of her scooter fade into the street.
For almost an hour, the apartment was quiet.
I watched videos on my phone. I ate two biscuits. I even started regretting my decision to stay home.
Then, at 11:11, someone knocked.
Three quick knocks.
I sat up.
Nobody should have been coming.
I heard the front door open a few seconds later.
Then came a woman's voice.
“It's me.”
Poonam Maasi.
My aunt had a spare key because Mummy trusted her.
That trust would later become the most painful part of the story.
I slipped out of bed.
I didn't go to greet her. Something about the timing bothered me. She usually called before visiting, especially when Mummy was at work.
I opened my bedroom door just wide enough to see the hallway.
Poonam was standing near the kitchen, carrying her red velvet temple bag.
She wore a grey hooded jacket despite the warmth outside.
She looked around.
Not casually.
Carefully.
Her eyes moved toward Mummy’s bedroom, then the kitchen, then the living room.
She was checking whether anyone was watching.
I pulled my door almost shut.
Through the narrow gap, I watched her walk toward the chair where Mummy always left her black office bag.
Except the bag wasn't there.
Poonam stopped.
Her expression changed.
She looked annoyed.
Then she walked into the bedroom.
My heart began beating faster.
I should have called Mummy.
I should have called Uncle Harish downstairs.
Instead, I stayed where I was.
A few seconds later, Poonam returned carrying the black office bag.
I recognized it immediately.
Mummy had bought it two years earlier after getting promoted at work. It was plain, sturdy, and always smelled faintly of the jasmine hand cream she kept inside.
Poonam placed it on the dining table.
Then she unzipped her temple bag.
My stomach tightened.
She pulled out a small transparent plastic pouch.
Inside was something that caught the light.
At first I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
Then she lifted it from the pouch.
A bracelet.
It was beautiful.
White metal. Small emerald stones. Diamonds set between them.
I had never seen anything like it in our home.
Poonam looked at the bracelet for several seconds.
Then she whispered something I could barely hear.
“Tonight, her saint act will end.”
My skin went cold.
She opened Mummy's office bag.
I took one silent step backward.
Then another.
Poonam glanced toward my room.
I froze.
She stared at the closed door for three seconds.
Four.
Then she turned away.
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
She hadn't seen me.
At least, I hoped she hadn't.
She pushed the bracelet deep beneath a folded cloth inside Mummy's bag.
Then she zipped it shut.
My aunt straightened her jacket, picked up her temple bag, and walked toward the door.
Before leaving, she stopped beside the mirror.
She looked at her reflection.
There was no guilt on her face.
Only satisfaction.
She opened the door.
Then paused.
“Meera thinks everyone believes she's perfect,” she muttered to herself.
My mother's name.
I had never heard Maasi speak about her like that.
The door closed.
I waited.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Then I ran to the window.
Poonam was already halfway down the lane.
She didn't look back.
My hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped my phone.
I called Mummy.
She answered on the third ring.
“Kavya? What happened?”
“Ma…”
“What is it?”
“Come home.”
There was silence.
“Are you feeling worse?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
I looked at the black office bag sitting on the dining table.
“Maasi came here.”
Another silence.
“What did she want?”
I swallowed.
“She put something inside your bag.”
“What?”
“I don't know how to explain it.”
“Kavya, you're frightening me.”
“She put a bracelet inside.”
Mummy's breathing changed.
“What bracelet?”
“A really expensive one.”
“Where did she get it?”
“I don't know.”
“Did she touch anything else?”
“I don't think so.”
Mummy spoke quietly.
“Listen to me. Don't touch the bag.”
“I won't.”
“Don't open it again.”
“I already saw her.”
“I know. That's why I'm telling you not to touch anything.”
I heard voices around Mummy.
She was at work.
“I'm coming home,” she said.
Then the call ended.
I stood beside the table.
For the first time that morning, I wished I had gone to school.
Because whatever was happening had nothing to do with a stomachache.
It had everything to do with my mother.
At 11:42, someone knocked again.
I looked through the peephole.
It was Uncle Harish from the apartment below.
He was an old family friend who had known Mummy since before I was born.
When I opened the door, he immediately noticed my face.
“What happened?”
I pulled him inside.
“Maasi came.”
He frowned.
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“What did she do?”
I pointed toward the bag.
“She put something inside.”
He didn't touch it.
Instead, he looked at me.
“Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“I was hiding behind my door.”
He took a slow breath.
“Then we need to be careful.”
He called his nephew, who worked as a lawyer, and explained what I had seen.
Then he asked me to describe the bracelet.
I did.
His expression became serious.
“Do you know if anything like that was stolen recently?”
I shook my head.
He made another call.
This time he spoke very quietly.
When he finished, he looked at the clock.
“Stay inside.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make sure nobody can say your mother put that bracelet there herself.”
He took out his phone.
“Evidence has to be protected before anyone comes looking for it.”
I didn't understand everything then.
But I understood one thing.
My aunt hadn't simply hidden jewellery.
She had planted a story.
And she intended my mother to become the villain in it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: The Bracelet Was Not the Only Thing My Aunt Had Prepared, and My Mother Had No Idea Someone Was Building a Case Against Her
I Pretended to Be Sick That Morning, Never Guessing the Person Who Entered Our Home Would Leave My Mother Facing Prison
Part 1 of 12
