After my mother’s death, my father remarried. I couldn’t bear being a stepmother, so I left home at 17. When I returned, my father remarried. My stepmother’s name was Suman, and she had sharp eyes. She had a daughter named Khushi, who was a year younger than me. After her return, our home in Lucknow ceased to be home.

Whenever my father was away, Aunt Suman would show her wisdom. A piece of candy, a jalebi, a toy—that was always Khushi’s first priority. My clothes were always tattered kurtas, while Khushi always had new clothes. “You’re a boy, you can wear whatever you want; girls should know how to look attractive,” she would say.

It wasn’t just materialism. She would often scold me for small mistakes, but Khushi would ignore it. I asked my father several times why he didn’t defend me, and he simply sighed: “Auntie just returned, you’ll have to endure a little.” But patience has its limits.

At the age of ten, after being beaten without reason, I packed some clothes and a few notebooks and left home. My father and aunt searched everywhere, but I never returned. I wanted to be alone, to grow up on my own, without anyone’s mercy. Then I moved to Mumbai, where I worked as an apprentice, a porter, and worked various jobs to make ends meet.

Twenty years later, I learned of my father’s passing. I returned to Lucknow with a heavy heart. The old house at the end of the street was still there, only its shine had faded with time.

Just as I was about to enter the gate, I heard neighbors whispering: “Poor Suman. She had hoped all her life that her daughter Khushi would marry a rich man, but he betrayed her, took everything, and disappeared. Khushi now works as a tailor and earns very little. Suman also borrowed money from moneylenders at high interest rates for her daughter’s ‘business,’ and now she’s bankrupt, and people are coming to collect the debt, making noise.”

I was stunned. In front of the old house, a thin, frail woman was arguing with a group of debt collectors. Her hair was disheveled, her face was pale, her once-bright eyes were now dim and tired. The group hurled harsh words at her: “Pay up! Or else, we’ll demolish the house!” She trembled, tears streaming down her face: “Give me more time, I’ll pay it back…”
Twenty years ago, I left because I couldn’t tolerate discrimination. Now that I’m back, everything I once hated is gone. The “powerful stepmother” of my past is like a person living in darkness.

I was at a crossroads: should I go in or turn away? I wanted my aunt to pay. But facing real hardship, I felt no joy—only a sense of emptiness.

Finally, I went in. I called out… “Aunt Suman!” She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. I turned to the crowd: “I’ll pay it back.” They looked at each other, then lowered their voices. I paid the agreed principal, took a promissory note for the remainder, clearly stating the interest rate and term, without any threats.

That night, we sat face to face on an old woven mat, over a steaming kettle. My aunt told me about the years since I left: my father was ill, the housework was overwhelming; she was happily fulfilling her dream of marrying to change her life; then her son-in-law betrayed her, and the money ran out. She apologized and said she had wanted to see me many times, but she was afraid I would hate her.

I was silent for a long time. Then she said, “My childhood can’t be brought back. But from today on, we will talk to each other not as stepmother and stepchildren, but as two hurt people.”

The next morning, I took my aunt to the police station to file a case against the moneylender and asked the cooperative lawyer to review the loan documents. I happily met her at the factory and told her to deposit a certain portion of her salary into the joint account to pay off the loan; I’ll pay the rest in agreed installments. I’ve even asked my neighbors to sign as witnesses to reduce the arrogance of the debt collectors.

In the afternoon, I was sitting alone in front of my father’s photo. I said, “I’ll be home late, but I’ll clean up a little mess.” Outside, the afternoon sun shone through the veranda, gleaming with dust. In the kitchen, Aunt Suman was cooking a very simple dal—knowing I didn’t eat salty food like I used to.

In the evening, Aunt placed a bowl in front of me and said hesitantly: “If you don’t want to call me ‘Aunty,’ just call me Suman. Let’s start again… with an apology.”

I nodded: “Okay. But after an apology, change is inevitable.”

Aunty held the hem of her saree and said softly: “Yes. Change.”

Khushi timidly entered the door: “You… give me a chance to start over.” I looked at her—no longer the pampered girl of yesteryear, but a woman who had just paid the price. I replied: “We all have a hand in this mess. Let’s untangle it one by one.”

That night, I slept on the old cot. The ceiling fan creaked. In the next room, Aunt sighed softly, but she wasn’t hiccuping anymore. I knew: tomorrow would be another long day—going to the bank, meeting with the lawyer, dealing with the moneylender. But at least the door between me and this house was open.

My childhood didn’t heal overnight. The hatred didn’t go away on its own. But amid the hustle and bustle of Lucknow, I learned that there are some relationships that can only be saved through mutual responsibility—the wrongdoer admits their mistake, the hurt person sets boundaries, and those still strong enough stand up to repay their past debts.

On the altar, the lamp flickers slowly. I close my eyes, listening to the sound of spoons clashing against utensils in the kitchen. For the first time in twenty years, the aroma of cooked rice wafts through this house. And I know, I’ve decided to stay here—not to forget, but to make amends.