Page 27 of The Defiant Wife

I look up.My father finally acknowledges my existence. Wow."It's good."

He hums."How's it going with the prince?"

Ah. That's what this is about. Not because he's interested in my work or the kids, he's interested in the connection.

I stare at my plate.Poke at the food.Suddenly not hungry anymore.Growing up, I spent years wondering what I did wrong. Why did they look at me differently?

Why did every achievement feel insignificant? Why did affection always seem conditional? Why did love feel earned instead of given?

Then I got older.And I realized the problem wasn't me.At least not entirely.Some people simply shouldn't be parents.Especially people who adopt children for headlines.

My adoption made news.

I still remember that.

The articles. The photographs. The interviews. The praise. What kind people.What generous people.What wonderful people.

I wonder what those reporters would've written if they'd seen what happened after the cameras left.

The distance. The indifference. The years spent feeling like an obligation they couldn't return.

A beautiful act of charity.

A terrible act of parenting.

My fingers trace one of the pale patches on my wrist absentmindedly.The vitiligo started appearing when I was younger.

At first it was tiny.Barely noticeable.Then more appeared. And more. And more.

I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror as a teenager. Terrified. Crying. Wondering if people would still think I was pretty.Wondering if anyone would ever love me.Wondering if something was wrong with me.

My father had looked at me once and sighed. Just sighed. As though the marks were another inconvenience. Another problem. Another burden.

My mother had started recommending creams. Doctors. Treatments. Anything that might make it less visible. Less noticeable. Less me.

Eventually I stopped listening.The children healed what they never broke.Children don't stare the way adults do. Or maybe they do. But theirs comes from curiosity. Not judgment.

The first time Raj asked about the white patches on my skin, he simply signed,”Does it hurt?”

When I told him no, he nodded and went back to playing.

That was it. No disgust or pity. No trace of discomfort.

Laila once told me I looked like someone had painted stars on me.Rani said I looked magical.Jay insisted I looked like a superhero.

Children have a way of making the world softer. Kinder. Better.

Adults spend so much time deciding who deserves love.Children just give it.My throat tightens unexpectedly. Because despite everything—despite the neglect.Despite the loneliness.Despite the countless moments that made me question my worth—these people did give me one thing.

One incredibly important thing.

The NGO. The building. The funding.

The place that became my entire world.The place where twenty-seven children sleep safely every night.The place where Raj learned sign language.Where Rani learned how to trustagain.Where Jay laughs so loudly he can probably be heard from another city.

The place that became home.A real home.Maybe the only one I've ever had.And for that . . . for that, I will always be grateful.

No matter what happened between us. No matter how much they hurt me. No matter how many nights I spent crying because I felt unwanted.