“Update on Aisha’s love life: still single and hopeless lol.”
I read that sentence sitting inside my car, parked outside my grandmother Kamala’s house, my phone trembling in my hands. It was 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. I had just finished a double shift in the ICU at a government hospital in Delhi, and I still carried the smell of antiseptic on my scrubs. I was exhausted. All I wanted was to go home, shower, and sleep. But then that notification appeared.
“Meera added you to Real Family.”
Real Family.
A horrible emptiness dropped into my stomach. I wasn’t supposed to be there. That much was obvious. My sister must have tapped the screen by accident with her perfectly manicured nails she always kept flawless for photos. She must have added me without realizing.
Still, I opened it.
Like anyone arriving late to a group chat, I scrolled upward to see what I had missed. The first thing I saw took my breath away.
Meera: “Is she still single? She’s practically winning the ‘lonely aunt’ award.”
Aunt Leela: “Was Aisha ‘Project Charity’ or ‘Poor Soul Project’? I can never remember.”
Meera: “Project Charity. That’s always been her—our little pity project.”
Mother (Ananya): “Don’t be cruel… well… it does fit her a bit.”
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. Project Charity. They had a nickname for me. My own mother—the woman who had held me when I had fevers as a child—had laughed along.
I should have left immediately. I should have pretended I never saw it. But I kept scrolling.
And scrolling.
And scrolling.
There were messages going back years. Seven years of it. Eight hundred and forty-seven messages of jokes, bets, and disguised concern.
They weren’t talking about me like a daughter, sister, or niece. They were talking about me like I was a failed case study meant for their entertainment.
My cousin Sana wrote in 2019: “How long before Aisha starts asking us for money?”
Aunt Leela replied: “Two months. Nurses don’t earn much.”
Meera: “I say six weeks. She acts proud, but she always ends up needing help.”
Mother (Ananya): “You girls are awful… I’ll say eight weeks.”
They were literally betting on when I would be forced to ask for help. While I worked sixteen-hour shifts, surviving on hospital biscuits and instant noodles, they laughed at my exhaustion.
But the worst came when I reached the year of my divorce.
My hands went cold as I searched August 2024.
Meera: “Emergency meeting! Aisha is getting divorced!”
Aunt Leela: “Finally! I knew that marriage wouldn’t last.”
Sana: “Who won the bet?”
Meera: “Let’s see… Aunt Leela said four years and two months. It lasted four years and three months. Almost correct.”
Aunt Leela: “Fine, I want my money.”
Mother (Ananya): “I just spoke to her. She’s devastated.”
Aunt Leela: “What did she expect? She was never home. Always stuck at the hospital.”
Meera: “At least she didn’t have children. One less problem.”
Mother (Ananya): “Yes. One less grandchild to worry about.”
My phone fell onto the car floor.
It wasn’t just pain. It was disgust. A deep, suffocating disgust that made it hard to breathe.
I had called my mother crying the day I found Arjun with another woman in our bed. Crying, broken, begging her to tell me I would be okay. And while I was falling apart, she was updating the group chat about my “crisis.”
But the line about the grandchild destroyed me completely.
Because there was one thing I had told my mother in absolute secrecy: the pregnancy I lost in my second year of marriage. No one else knew. No one.
“One less grandchild to worry about.”
That sentence cut through me like a knife.
I don’t remember how I got back to my apartment. I only remember sitting on the bathroom floor, crying until my voice disappeared.
And then something shifted.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe humiliation. Maybe years of swallowing comments, comparisons, silence—being treated like the unwanted daughter. But around 4 a.m., the crying stopped and turned into something else. Something cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
I opened my laptop and created a folder: EVIDENCE.
For four hours, I took screenshots of everything. Every insult. Every joke. Every bet. Every cruel message. I organized them by date, by name, by level of cruelty. I had never documented anything so carefully—even in my most difficult ICU cases.
At 4:23 a.m., I entered the group one last time. They were all asleep, while I sat alone among ruins.
I typed one sentence:
“Thanks for the evidence. See you soon.”
I sent it and left the group.
My phone exploded immediately.
Meera called six times. I didn’t answer once.
Then the messages came.
Meera: “Aisha PLEASE answer, I swear I can explain.”
Mother (Ananya): “It’s not what it looks like, beta. Families vent sometimes.”
Aunt Leela: “Don’t make a scene out of this. It was private. You’re too sensitive.”
Too sensitive.
The same woman who had profited from betting on my divorce was calling me too sensitive.
I turned off my phone and went to work.
For three days, I lived in a strange calm. I saved patients, changed dressings, held strangers’ hands while ignoring calls from my own blood. Meera came to my building twice. I saw her through the peephole—crying, knocking, begging. I didn’t open the door.
Because I already had a plan.
And that plan began at my grandmother Kamala’s 70th birthday celebration.
Six weeks earlier, she had called me herself.
“Aisha, my child, I’m having a big birthday celebration. I want you there. Promise me.”
“Of course, Dadi.”
“Good. Because that night, I’m going to say something important.”
At the time, I thought she meant a toast. Memories. Something normal.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
Three days before the party, Meera cornered me in the hallway of my apartment building.
Her makeup was smudged. Her hair was messy. For the first time in her life, she looked human.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“What you saw… it got out of hand. We never meant it to go that far.”
“Aunt Leela literally bet money on my divorce, Meera.”
“That was her idea!”
“And you participated.”
“I was young.”
“You were twenty-five.”
Her expression changed. The mask slipped.
“Fine. You saw everything. But you cannot tell Dadi.”
I laughed once, sharply.
“Oh?”
“She has a weak heart, Aisha. If you cause a scene at her birthday and something happens, it will be your fault.”
I stared at her.
“So now you care about her health? Interesting. Because I’m the one who takes her to every hospital appointment. I’m the one who visits every Sunday. I’m the one who buys her medication.”
Meera clenched her jaw.
“That’s why no one can stand you. You always play the victim.”
I looked at her properly for the first time in years. The girl I grew up sharing a room with. The one I defended. The one I helped when no one else did.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I’ve been the victim for years. But that role is over now.”
I shut the door in her face.
And on the night of the party, as I stepped into my grandmother’s garden, I knew something huge was about to explode.
Because everyone went quiet when they saw me.
And smiled too late—too stiffly—as if they already knew the blow was coming… but had no idea from where.
PART 2
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