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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
She was wrong about one thing.<\/p>\n
I was watching.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust let me sleep, Ma.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have your mathematics test today.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were studying until almost midnight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know that too.\u201d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cStay home, then. I\u2019ll call your teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt guilty immediately.<\/p>\n
The stomachache was completely fake.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
I had no idea that skipping school would become the reason my mother kept her freedom.<\/p>\n
Mummy left for work at 9:06.<\/p>\n
Before she went, she stood at my bedroom door.<\/p>\n
\u201cDrink the milk.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI will.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd don\u2019t spend the whole day on your phone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
She smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou say that every time.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then she left.<\/p>\n
I waited until I heard the downstairs gate close and the sound of her scooter fade into the street.<\/p>\n
For almost an hour, the apartment was quiet.<\/p>\n
I watched videos on my phone. I ate two biscuits. I even started regretting my decision to stay home.<\/p>\n
Then, at 11:11, someone knocked.<\/p>\n
Three quick knocks.<\/p>\n
I sat up.<\/p>\n
Nobody should have been coming.<\/p>\n
I heard the front door open a few seconds later.<\/p>\n
Then came a woman's voice.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt's me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Poonam Maasi.<\/p>\n
My aunt had a spare key because Mummy trusted her.<\/p>\n
That trust would later become the most painful part of the story.<\/p>\n
I slipped out of bed.<\/p>\n
I didn't go to greet her. Something about the timing bothered me. She usually called before visiting, especially when Mummy was at work.<\/p>\n
I opened my bedroom door just wide enough to see the hallway.<\/p>\n
Poonam was standing near the kitchen, carrying her red velvet temple bag.<\/p>\n
She wore a grey hooded jacket despite the warmth outside.<\/p>\n
She looked around.<\/p>\n
Not casually.<\/p>\n
Carefully.<\/p>\n
Her eyes moved toward Mummy\u2019s bedroom, then the kitchen, then the living room.<\/p>\n
She was checking whether anyone was watching.<\/p>\n
I pulled my door almost shut.<\/p>\n
Through the narrow gap, I watched her walk toward the chair where Mummy always left her black office bag.<\/p>\n
Except the bag wasn't there.<\/p>\n
Poonam stopped.<\/p>\n
Her expression changed.<\/p>\n
She looked annoyed.<\/p>\n
Then she walked into the bedroom.<\/p>\n
My heart began beating faster.<\/p>\n
I should have called Mummy.<\/p>\n
I should have called Uncle Harish downstairs.<\/p>\n
Instead, I stayed where I was.<\/p>\n
A few seconds later, Poonam returned carrying the black office bag.<\/p>\n
I recognized it immediately.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Poonam placed it on the dining table.<\/p>\n
Then she unzipped her temple bag.<\/p>\n
My stomach tightened.<\/p>\n
She pulled out a small transparent plastic pouch.<\/p>\n
Inside was something that caught the light.<\/p>\n
At first I couldn't understand what I was seeing.<\/p>\n
Then she lifted it from the pouch.<\/p>\n
A bracelet.<\/p>\n
It was beautiful.<\/p>\n
White metal. Small emerald stones. Diamonds set between them.<\/p>\n
I had never seen anything like it in our home.<\/p>\n
Poonam looked at the bracelet for several seconds.<\/p>\n
Then she whispered something I could barely hear.<\/p>\n
\u201cTonight, her saint act will end.\u201d<\/p>\n
My skin went cold.<\/p>\n
She opened Mummy's office bag.<\/p>\n
I took one silent step backward.<\/p>\n
Then another.<\/p>\n
Poonam glanced toward my room.<\/p>\n
I froze.<\/p>\n
She stared at the closed door for three seconds.<\/p>\n
Four.<\/p>\n
Then she turned away.<\/p>\n
I pressed my hand against my mouth.<\/p>\n
She hadn't seen me.<\/p>\n
At least, I hoped she hadn't.<\/p>\n
She pushed the bracelet deep beneath a folded cloth inside Mummy's bag.<\/p>\n
Then she zipped it shut.<\/p>\n
My aunt straightened her jacket, picked up her temple bag, and walked toward the door.<\/p>\n
Before leaving, she stopped beside the mirror.<\/p>\n
She looked at her reflection.<\/p>\n
There was no guilt on her face.<\/p>\n
Only satisfaction.<\/p>\n
She opened the door.<\/p>\n
Then paused.<\/p>\n
\u201cMeera thinks everyone believes she's perfect,\u201d she muttered to herself.<\/p>\n
My mother's name.<\/p>\n
I had never heard Maasi speak about her like that.<\/p>\n
The door closed.<\/p>\n
I waited.<\/p>\n
Thirty seconds.<\/p>\n
A minute.<\/p>\n
Then I ran to the window.<\/p>\n
Poonam was already halfway down the lane.<\/p>\n
She didn't look back.<\/p>\n
My hands were shaking so badly that I nearly dropped my phone.<\/p>\n
I called Mummy.<\/p>\n
She answered on the third ring.<\/p>\n
\u201cKavya? What happened?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMa\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome home.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you feeling worse?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what happened?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the black office bag sitting on the dining table.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaasi came here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Another silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did she want?\u201d<\/p>\n
I swallowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe put something inside your bag.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't know how to explain it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKavya, you're frightening me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe put a bracelet inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mummy's breathing changed.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat bracelet?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA really expensive one.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did she get it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid she touch anything else?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't think so.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mummy spoke quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cListen to me. Don't touch the bag.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI won't.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon't open it again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI already saw her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know. That's why I'm telling you not to touch anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard voices around Mummy.<\/p>\n
She was at work.<\/p>\n
\u201cI'm coming home,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Then the call ended.<\/p>\n
I stood beside the table.<\/p>\n
For the first time that morning, I wished I had gone to school.<\/p>\n
Because whatever was happening had nothing to do with a stomachache.<\/p>\n
It had everything to do with my mother.<\/p>\n
At 11:42, someone knocked again.<\/p>\n
I looked through the peephole.<\/p>\n
It was Uncle Harish from the apartment below.<\/p>\n
He was an old family friend who had known Mummy since before I was born.<\/p>\n
When I opened the door, he immediately noticed my face.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n
I pulled him inside.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaasi came.\u201d<\/p>\n
He frowned.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout twenty minutes ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did she do?\u201d<\/p>\n
I pointed toward the bag.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe put something inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
He didn't touch it.<\/p>\n
Instead, he looked at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you see her?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you certain?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was hiding behind my door.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took a slow breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen we need to be careful.\u201d<\/p>\n
He called his nephew, who worked as a lawyer, and explained what I had seen.<\/p>\n
Then he asked me to describe the bracelet.<\/p>\n
I did.<\/p>\n
His expression became serious.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you know if anything like that was stolen recently?\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n
He made another call.<\/p>\n
This time he spoke very quietly.<\/p>\n
When he finished, he looked at the clock.<\/p>\n
\u201cStay inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMake sure nobody can say your mother put that bracelet there herself.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took out his phone.<\/p>\n
\u201cEvidence has to be protected before anyone comes looking for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn't understand everything then.<\/p>\n
But I understood one thing.<\/p>\n
My aunt hadn't simply hidden jewellery.<\/p>\n
She had planted a story.<\/p>\n
And she intended my mother to become the villain in it.<\/p>\n
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 … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":465,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-466","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-best-one-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/466","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=466"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/466\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":478,"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/466\/revisions\/478"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/465"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=466"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=466"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bestonestory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=466"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}