Velamma’s mood lifted slightly. Ramesh was a good boy—hardworking, quiet, and respectful. Unlike her own two sons. Jayaprakash was a spineless dreamer, and Sunil was a reckless fool. She gestured for Ramesh to sit.
“So,” Velamma began, her voice deceptively calm as she placed a steaming cup of filter coffee in front of her husband, Jayaprakash. “You married a widow with a child. Without our blessing. Without even a word.”
But as the family settled for breakfast, the first crack appeared. Arun, Riya’s son, accidentally knocked over a glass of milk. It spilled across the white tablecloth and onto Subbulakshmi’s lap.
“Clumsy brat!” Subbulakshmi shrieked, jumping up.
Sunil shifted uncomfortably. “Amma, I knew you wouldn’t understand. Riya is… she’s my life. And Arun is a good boy.”
The source of her turmoil was seated at the dining table: her younger son, Sunil. He was not alone. Beside him, picking at a plate of upma with a practiced air of disinterest, sat his new wife, Riya. And clinging to Riya’s saree pallu was a small, wide-eyed boy—Riya’s son from a previous marriage, whom Sunil had conveniently forgotten to mention during the hurried courtship.