The dawn of the match day was tinged with a cocktail of emotions; a burning desire to embrace Shubman mingled with the fear of being a distraction. So, I refrained from calling, sending only a message to let him know I'd be there, a silent supporter in the VIP section.

As the captains emerged for the toss, the air was electric with anticipation. Victory favored India, granting them the chance to bat first under an azure sky that promised runs aplenty.

Yashasvi and Rohit bhai approached the crease with a swagger that spoke of battles won and challenges yet to come. The English bowlers, seasoned James Anderson and fiery Mark Wood, unleashed a barrage of disciplined deliveries. The Indian openers, undaunted, weathered the storm and then surged forward, stitching together a century partnership that had the crowd on its feet. But the triumph was marred just before lunch as Anderson's cunning delivery claimed Rohit bhai, out lbw for a valiant 45. India regrouped at lunch with the scoreboard reading a promising 120/1.

The post-lunch session welcomed Shub to the battlefield. His bat, an artist's brush, painted strokes of cautious elegance against England's relentless attack. Side by side with Yashasvi, they wove a tapestry of runs, with Yashasvi's bat singing to the tune of a half-century. Yet, debutant Tom Hartley's spin wove a different tale, snaring Jaiswal for 65. The quick departures of Devdutt Padikkal and Sarfaraz Khan left India teetering at 180/4, but Shub stood unshaken, his half-century a testament to his resolve as tea was called.

The final session was a crescendo of Shub's symphony. With Ravindra Jadeja as his steadfast ally, they crafted a partnership that was nothing short of a masterpiece. Shubman's dance against the spinners was mesmerizing, his cover drives a chorus that echoed around the stadium. His century came with a display of sheer power, a six that soared over long-on and into the annals of cricketing glory. Though Jadeja departed after a gritty 40, Shubman's masterclass continued, his unbeaten 145 guiding India to a formidable 320/7 at stumps.

The accolade of Player of the Match was a crown well-deserved, and as the interviewer posed the question, "Hello Shubman. How do you feel?" his eyes found mine, and a shared smile passed between us. "I feel good," he replied, the simplicity of his words belying the depth of his achievement.

"And to whom would you like to dedicate this success?" the interviewer probed further.

Without hesitation, Shubman's answer was a balm to my soul, "My sister." The moment was a silent acknowledgment of bonds that run deeper than the game.

As the award was bestowed upon him, he retreated to the sanctity of the dressing room, leaving me by the VIP stands, lost in a sea of thoughts amidst the scrolling on my phone. The stadium began its transformation for the night, the pitch tucked away under covers, and the players' conversations a distant murmur. The day's play might have ended, but the emotions it stirred would linger long after the fans had departed and the lights had dimmed.

The echoes of applause still rang in my ears as I retreated to the sanctuary of the showers, the hot water cascading over me, washing away the sweat but not the yearning for Di's embrace. Dressed in the comfort of the Indian team's orange and black, I emerged, only to be greeted by Sara's warm congratulations. Her embrace was a balm to my aching heart, and I managed a smile, "Thanks, Sara."

Our conversation meandered through trivialities, yet her presence was a gentle reminder of the familial bond I craved. She hugged me once more, her words an invitation, "Come home when you're free. And send me Alyssa's Instagram account. I'll talk to her." I nodded, a silent promise hanging between us.

In the solitude of the dressing room, I reached out to Mumma and Papa, but the calls echoed unanswered, deepening the hollow within me. Shreyas' laughter with his parents was a stark contrast to my solitude, and I offered him a smile that barely masked my longing.

The team bus was a cacophony of camaraderie, but Ishan's teasing about Sara pierced through, bringing an involuntary blush to my cheeks. "Shut up, Ishan," I protested, even as my dimples betrayed my embarrassment.

"Shrey! Look at those dimples," Ishan called out, and I could only respond with a playful smack, a feeble attempt to hide my turmoil.

A memory surfaced unbidden—a flashback to a time when Di's teasing mirrored Ishan's, her laughter a melody that now seemed distant.

"Lost in thoughts of Sara?" Ishan's voice snapped me back to reality. "No," I lied, even as my heart whispered her name.

Ishan's concern was palpable, "Problem kya hai? Jeet ke din itna chidachida kyu?"

His words stung, a reminder of the chasm between my public success and private despair. "mera parivaar mera chehara bhi nahi dekhana chaata" I confessed, the pain raw in my voice. "Tumhari pep talks mujh par waste hain, Ishan. Meri failure pyaar mein nahin hai; yeh mere parivaar ke saath hai. tum nahin samajhoge. Koshish bhi mat karo."

I retreated to an empty seat at the front, seeking solitude amidst the crowd. Why was it so hard for them to see the struggle behind my smile?

The living room was silent except for the commentators' voices resonating from the TV, narrating each play with fervent excitement. There, amidst the cheers and the tension, my heart swelled with pride as I watched my son, Shubman, grace the field with his undeniable talent. The moment he dedicated his triumph to Shahneel, it was as if a wave of emotions crashed over me, leaving me awash with both joy and sorrow.

Lakwinderji sat beside me, his face a mask of indifference, but I knew him well enough to see the flicker of pride in his eyes, quickly veiled. Compelled by a mother's heart, I ascended the stairs to Shubman's room, a place that held the essence of my children. The door creaked open to reveal a space preserved in time, every corner a testament to the bond between brother and sister. Their photographs adorned the walls, frozen moments of laughter and love.

Amidst the neatness, a pile of papers caught my eye. I reached for one, and Shubman's handwriting unfolded before me—each word a stroke of artistry I hadn't known he possessed.

A tear escaped, a silent witness to the ache in my heart, but I brushed it away, returning the letter to its rightful place.

Descending to the living room, I found Lakwinderji engrossed in his phone. My own device beckoned, its lockscreen a cherished memory of Shubman's affectionate gesture—a hug from behind, a kiss on the cheek. A silent question hung heavy in my heart: why had fate drawn such a divide between my daughter and my son?

Lakwinderji's voice broke through my reverie, tinged with concern. "Keart, are you okay?" I nodded, my voice a whisper, "Yes, I'm fine. Just reminiscing about the kids."

He understood, and we moved to the rhythm of our routine. In the kitchen, I cooked, each dish a recipe steeped in memories. Dinner was a quiet affair, the clinking of cutlery a soft accompaniment to the thoughts that lingered on Shubman and Shahneel. As the night drew in, their absence was a silent guest at our table, their presence felt in every shared glance, every unspoken word.