When I brought my girlfriend home after years of waiting for my family, my father pointed to Anvi and said: “Get out of my house right now, you rude woman.”

I work in New Delhi and live in Varanasi. I’m over 30 this year, and my parents and relatives are constantly urging me to get married. Last Diwali, my mother called and said: “If someone is coming, bring them home so we can make preparations. Don’t worry about the exact age.”

To be honest, I also decided to seriously pursue a relationship with Anvi, my girlfriend of almost a year. She’s very polite, well-mannered, and even knows how to cook. I thought, if my parents agreed, we’d think about getting married after the festival.

That day, I had already told my mother that I would bring Anvi home. She was overjoyed, and asked me to buy some gifts from home—a box of sweets and some fruit—and then come back for dinner. On the way, I teased Anvi, saying: “Don’t worry, my parents aren’t difficult, they’re very sweet. Just keep smiling, that’s all.”

But as we entered the courtyard, and were about to put down the bag of gifts, Dad suddenly stood up, his face flushed red, and pointed at Anvi:

“Get out of my house right now! You bitch!”

Anvi was stunned, and I was speechless. Dad’s voice was filled with hatred. He gritted his teeth and came closer, saying: “People like you are not welcome in our house.” Mom ran out of the kitchen to stop us, but Dad yelled louder. The atmosphere was suffocating and tense.

My younger sister, Pooja, quickly pulled Anvi out and whispered: “You two go to the shop on the corner and have tea. Wait for me, don’t worry.” I followed them out, pretending to buy fruit from the grocery store, but my heart was burning like fire. Why did Dad do this? Anvi had never met him before, so why was he so angry as if we already knew each other?

As soon as I entered the shop, I eagerly opened my phone and checked the camera in the house. The image that appeared devastated me.

Dad broke the teapot and pushed the chair over and over. Mom sat in the corner of the living room, covering her face, crying and screaming: “You’re sick, but you don’t want to get treatment. At home, sometimes conscious, sometimes confused. It’s so hard on the children, who can bear it?”

I quickly texted Pooja because I was afraid Anvi would find out. She told me that the last time Dad fell, he suffered a concussion. The doctor had said he was showing signs of aging, his memory failing. For the past few days, whenever he saw a little girl, he would think of her.

I suddenly understood who “she” was—my biological mother, Neelam—the same woman who betrayed me and my dad and left me for someone else 25 years ago. I still remember that day clearly, Dad kneeling in the middle of the courtyard, holding a torn wedding photo, and crying out Mom’s name with a choked voice. Since then, he has lived in solitude, never mentioning her again. Perhaps that wound had been buried for decades, but now, because of the illness, it had resurfaced, just as fierce and shocking as the first day.

I was silent, my heart sank. I felt so sad for my father and for my mother—the man who didn’t give birth to me, but who has been caring for someone with so many wounds in his heart for so many years. Anvi put her hand on my shoulder without saying anything. Perhaps she, too, understood that this was unexpected.

That day, we just ate a quick meal—dal, sabzi, and some rotis—and my father didn’t come to sit with us. My mother quietly kept bringing out more dal for Anvi, coaxing her: “Son, don’t take it to heart. When he calms down, it will be different.”

On the way back to Delhi, Anvi held my hand: “I don’t blame you. Your father needs treatment, and you need time too. When things get better, let’s talk about marriage.”

I nodded. Suddenly, I realized that marriage isn’t just about two people. It’s also about old pain, unhealed memories, and responsibilities to loved ones. I needed to spend more time with my father and family. And if possible, I would take my second mother and Pooja to the hospital in Varanasi so they could begin proper treatment—so that the past wouldn’t haunt us in the future.