“Dad,
Every weekend, my siblings and stepmother happily go with Grandma to eat pho at a small restaurant, while I’m stuck at home with a plate of cold rice with salted water. I watch them disappear into the distance, my heart aching, thinking that perhaps because I’m a stepchild, I’ll never be treated fairly like them.

Yesterday, out of curiosity and sadness, I secretly followed them. I walked silently behind them, my heart pounding. But Dad, they didn’t go to the pho restaurant as usual. I saw them turn into a house in a small alley in the old quarter, the wooden door tightly closed. I hid behind the wall, my heart stopping when I heard laughter, lively music coming from inside… Not the fragrant smell of pho, but the delicious aroma of grilled Tandoori chicken, beer and whiskey, and the sound of clinking glasses. Inside, I even saw the neighbor that I hear my stepmother whispering to on the porch every night. My stepmother was smiling brightly, I served him food, while the children ran and played as if it were a real family party.

And I… still sat alone in the empty house with a plate of cold rice and white salt, thinking everyone had just gone to grab a quick bowl of pho and come back. Dad, why did they treat me like this? Why was I abandoned in my own home?

Dad, I stood there for a long time, until night fell and the stars began to twinkle in the Delhi sky. The house in the alley was still brightly lit, the laughter and chatter still resounding. I returned home with heavy feet, my stomach hungry, but my heart even hungrier – hungry for a little justice, a little love.

I didn’t go straight to my room. I sat by the window sill, looking up at the small altar with Maa’s (my mother’s) photograph. In the flickering oil lamp light, Maa’s gentle face seemed to be comforting me. I whispered, “Maa, what should I do?” And then, an idea flashed through my mind—I remembered the last letter Dad sent, which had the address of the machine shop where he worked in Mumbai. Dad had said, “Whenever you need anything, write to me.”

That night, under the oil lamp, I took an old piece of student paper and an empty ballpoint pen, trying to write as small as possible, saving every centimeter of paper:

“Dear Father,

I can’t bear it anymore. They not only gave me cold rice with salt to eat. Today I found out they secretly went to a party, and even the neighbor man that stepmother often meets at night was there. They laughed and joked, ate Tandoori chicken, drank alcohol, and I was left behind with a lie about a bowl of pho. I’m scared to be here. Please, Father, come pick me up. I promise to be diligent and not bother you too much.

Your son,
Arjun”

The next morning, while stepmother and siblings were still asleep after the party, I secretly went to the post office near Chandni Chowk market, using the small amount of money I had saved from collecting empty bottles to send an urgent letter.
Ten days passed like ten hot seasons. With each cold rice with salt meal, I became even more determined not to cry. I learned to remain silent like a wall, observing everything: the times the neighbor came to the house in the evenings, the small gifts he brought for the children, the way my stepmother hurriedly hid the boxes of ladoo when she heard my footsteps.

Then one rainy afternoon, as I was sweeping the yard, a tall figure, his clothes stained with oil and gasoline, stood under the gate. Oh my God! It was Dad!

Dad didn’t come back empty-handed. He brought the neighborhood policeman and a well-dressed man – his lawyer friend from Mumbai. Everything happened as fast as a movie. The evidence I gathered (notes recording the times, overheard conversations), combined with the testimony of a few kind neighbors who had witnessed my unfair treatment, made my stepmother turn pale.

In front of everyone, Dad didn’t raise his voice at all. Father hugged his child tightly—the first hug after three years of separation—and said in a low, emotional voice, “I’ve come to pick you up. From now on, no one can make you eat rice with salt anymore.”

Father and child left the house as the sun set. The child looked back one last time—at the place where he had lived his loneliest days. On the way to the train station, Father stopped at a small restaurant. “Today,” Father said, his hand on his child’s shoulder, “we’ll celebrate with a delicious dinner. You can have whatever you want.”

The child looked at the menu, his heart warming. But then he shook his head: “Father, I don’t want pho, and I don’t want Tandoori chicken. I just want a plate of hot white rice, with some dal (lentils) and everyday vegetables.”

Father looked at his child, his eyes reddening. Father understood. For me, happiness now isn’t about lavish parties, but about sitting down to eat with Dad, being myself, and knowing that from now on, every meal will be hearty, warm, and filled with love.

The night train to Mumbai rolled along. I sat next to Dad, my head resting on his shoulder. Outside the window, fields and villages flashed by in the night. For the first time in years, I felt truly home. Home isn’t just four walls, but a place where someone loves me unconditionally. And I know that no matter what the future holds in this strange city, as long as I have Dad, every meal will be sweet.