After my mother, Mrs. Sushma Mehra, retired, she became irritable and suspicious. My father, Mr. Rajiv Mehra, was still healthy, playing chess every morning and exercising at Gomti Riverfront Park; while she was at home, she was always suspicious. The climax came when my family hired a new maid, 27-year-old Hina, who was gentle, quiet, and very hardworking.

My mother suddenly became upset, constantly observing and spying. Many times I heard her mutter:

“A face like that… it’s not easy. Old men, when they find flirtatious girls, easily get hooked.”

My father just sighed and didn’t argue.

One day I came home from work and saw my mother busy with her laptop. When asked, she calmly replied:

“We’ve installed some small cameras to cover everything. The living room, the kitchen, and the hallway. Don’t tell your dad, he’ll make a fuss if he finds out.”

I felt embarrassed, but I didn’t stop her. She was nervous, so I let it be.

Things started to get strange when I noticed Hina occasionally going into that old storage room that was rarely used. At first, I thought she was cleaning, but that day, when I left home for work and passed by, I heard rustling sounds, then a soft laugh from inside. I was about to knock on the door when Hina opened it, looked startled for a moment, then quickly walked out holding a small bag.

I started to get suspicious.

That night, when my mother turned the camera back on to check, I sat next to her. At first, she stared at the video and muttered. When we fast-forwarded to the moment I heard a noise in the closet, both mother and daughter were stunned.

On the screen, Hina slowly opened the storage room door, walked in, and then… less than two minutes later, my father appeared. No one said anything. But contrary to what we had expected, Dad placed something in her hand…

He picked up the wooden box and immediately pulled it out.

“What is it?” my mother asked softly, her face pale.

I asked her to repeat the same scene a few more times. It turned out the same scene was being repeated over and over: my father came in and handed over the box, Hina opened it, wrote something, put it away, and closed it tightly. Each time, just a few minutes, no friendly conversation, no suspicious contact.

Unable to tolerate this, the next morning my mother took the key to open the closet. When she opened the wooden box, she was trembling.

Inside were an old photo album, a notebook, and… some faded children’s things: a small silver anklet bell, a cufflink engraved with the letter “R,” and a Polaroid photo of a young woman holding a baby.

My mother sat down, tears streaming down her face.

When called upon, Hina timidly revealed the truth:

“I… am the child of Uncle Rajiv’s ex-girlfriend. They were in love when they were young, but my mother died in an accident, leaving no one to know that Uncle had an illegitimate child. A year ago, Uncle found me… but he said he didn’t dare tell anyone, afraid the whole family would be traumatized. I came to work as a maid… just to see my father every day.”

That room, that box—memories of a father who had never accepted his child.

My mother burst into tears. All those years of doubt, jealousy, and worry… had left her in the middle of a relationship that still had no name.

That night, Mother quietly cooked a delicious meal. For the first time, she gave Hina a piece of fish, her voice choking:

“Hina… can you call me Mom?