Aryaman burst through the door angrily, making everyone at the dinner table turn their heads. Pashmina looked up, her voice stopping him in his tracks.

"You're back soon? Did you have dinner?"

"No, Mu—" Aryaman started to say Mumma but stopped midway. His voice faltered for a moment before he shook his head. "No, I didn't."

Pashmina sighed as she pulled out a plate. "You should have let me know. Come, eat," she said, scooping a portion of food from her plate onto his. One by one, everyone at the table followed, offering him a share of their meal.

"Why didn't you eat at Jaymeet's house? You were supposed to have dinner there," Pashmina asked while he stood in the living room, his hands clenched into fists, avoiding their gaze.

He turned fiercely, his bangs lifting slightly before settling back onto his forehead. "Why can't I eat here in this house? Any problem?" he snapped.

The room fell silent. The clinking of cutlery against plates ceased, and all eyes were on Aryaman. A hint of hurt flickered across Pashmina's face, but she quickly masked it with a calm expression.

"No one said you can't eat here," she replied evenly, placing the plate in front of an empty chair. "I was just asking."

Aryaman clenched his jaw, his chest rising and falling with restrained emotion. He wanted to say something, but the lump in his throat made it hard. He swallowed, looking away.

"Aryaman, come sit," Pashmina called out, her voice firm yet gentle, a quiet invitation rather than an order.

"I don't wanna eat," he muttered, turning on his heel, ready to walk away.

But before he could take another step, Pashmina's voice cut through the silence again. "Aryaman."

Something in her tone—steady, unwavering—made him pause. His fists clenched tighter, his jaw stiffening.

"What now?" he snapped, whipping around, his eyes burning with frustration. "Why does it matter whether I eat or not? Why does everything have to be questioned in this house?"

The room stood still, as if the very walls had drawn in a sharp breath. Aryaman had always been reckless, sometimes immature, but never had he spoken to Pashmina like this. Never with such sharp edges in his voice.

Shubman's hand tightened around his glass, his knuckles paling. He didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to. When he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of quiet authority, like the slow rumble of thunder before a storm.

"That's not how you talk to your mother." His gaze locked onto Aryaman, unwavering. "Come and sit. Right here."

"You don't tell me what to do!" Aryaman shouted, his voice cracking with frustration. The words lashed through the air like a whip, sharp and unexpected.

Little Innayat flinched, shrinking into her chair at her brother's sudden outburst. Her tiny hands clutched the edge of the table, eyes wide with something between fear and confusion. She had never seen him like this before—none of them had.

The scrape of a chair against the floor shattered the silence. Shubman pushed back from the table, his movements slow but charged with restrained fury. His jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides as he rose to his full height, ready to confront the boy standing before him.

Pashmina's eyes widened in alarm. Without a second thought, she hurried around the table, her steps quick, her heart pounding. She reached him just as he squared his shoulders, standing between father and son like a fragile wall against a brewing storm.

"What's with that tone?" he demanded, his voice firm but dangerously quiet. "What's gotten into you?"

Aryaman's jaw clenched, his breath heavy. His father's words struck something deep inside him, something he couldn't name but felt burning in his chest.

"You all just—" He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. "Forget it."

His voice had lost some of its fire, but the embers of his anger still smoldered. He turned slightly, as if debating whether to stay or storm off again.

Shubman didn't move. He didn't raise his voice. But his presence alone made it clear—this conversation wasn't over.

Pashmina took a slow breath, glancing between them, trying to find the right words to bridge the widening gap before it became something impossible to cross.

Shubman's eyes narrowed. "You all just what, Aryaman?" His voice was firm, pressing, demanding an answer.

Aryaman's breath shuddered. His vision burned, not just from unshed tears but from the weight of everything pressing against his chest—everything he had heard, everything he had read, everything that had shifted the ground beneath him on his way home.

Jaymeet's Naani's words echoed in his head, cruel and sharp, unraveling the threads of certainty he had wrapped himself in all his life. And then, on the way here—the search. His frantic, desperate attempt to find proof, to find a lie, to find anything that would tell him it wasn't true. But the truth didn't bend. It stood, unshaken, staring back at him through cold, unchangeable facts.

His parents.

The ones who raised him, the ones who tucked him into bed, who kissed his bruises, who celebrated his smallest victories. The ones who stood before him now, looking at him with confusion, concern, maybe even fear—fear of what he might say next.

But were they really his parents?

Not by blood.

Not by birth.

And the worst part wasn't even the truth itself—it was the silence. The fact that they had never told him. That they had let him live his entire life believing in something that wasn't real. That they had made this decision for him, as if he didn't have the right to know.

His fists clenched at his sides. His throat ached with words he didn't know how to say.

But he had to.

He had to ask them.

A shaky breath escaped him, and before he could stop it, the first tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. His vision blurred, his chest tightening under the weight of it all.

"You all just... hid it from me."

His voice cracked, raw and exposed. Vulnerable.

And for the first time that night, the anger in his eyes was outmatched by the hurt.

Pashmina and Shubman trembled, a flicker of unease passing between them, but they forced themselves to stay composed.

It had to be something else.

It had to be.

Anything but that.

Pashmina's fingers curled against the fabric of her kurti, her throat tightening. She wished, desperately, that she had misheard. That he meant something—anything—other than what her heart feared.

Her voice wavered as she spoke, barely above a whisper.

"Hid what?"

She already knew the answer.

But she wasn't ready for it.

Her hands trembled at her sides as she swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. Praying.

Praying that whatever came next wouldn't shatter everything.

Aryaman's breath trembled as it left him, uneven and heavy, like the weight of his thoughts was pressing against his ribs, making it harder to breathe. A fresh surge of unshed tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision, each drop a reflection of the storm raging inside him, pulling him in too many directions at once.

His gaze, filled with raw betrayal, locked onto Pashmina's.

"The truth."

A single moment stretched unbearably between them.

Shubman's hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening, but he didn't speak. Pashmina took a small step forward, but Aryaman flinched back—just slightly, just enough.

It was like a knife to her heart.

"The truth about me," he continued, his voice cracking, his fists trembling. "About who I really am."

Pashmina opened her mouth to speak, to say something—anything—but the words refused to come.

"You lied to me." His voice was quieter now, but the pain in it was deafening. "My whole life. You let me believe I was your—" He stopped, choking on the word.

His.

Theirs.

Their son.

"Beta—" her voice broke. "You are ours."

But Aryaman only stared at her, something unrecognizable in his eyes.

Were they?

Were they really?

"By name," Aryaman shot back. "Not by blood."

Aryaman watched as his parents—his step-parents—looked at him with hurt pooling in their eyes. A part of him wavered, but the storm inside him refused to settle. If they were hurting, then what about him? What about the years of lies, the truth buried beneath their silence?

His throat tightened, his breath uneven. His emotions raged inside him, battling between betrayal and the desperate need to understand.

And then, in a choked voice, he asked the one question that had been clawing at his chest since the moment he found out.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

The words landed like a thunderclap. Pashmina's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her hands trembled, clutching the edge of her kurti as if holding onto something solid could keep her from breaking.

Shubman's face hardened, but there was something behind his stern expression—guilt. Regret.

The silence stretched between them, suffocating.

Aryaman let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "That's what I thought." His voice wavered, but the resentment burned through. "You were never going to tell me, were you? You were just going to let me live my whole life in ignorance—like a fool."

Pashmina took a shaky step forward. "Beta, it wasn't like that—

"Stop calling me that!" Aryaman's voice cracked as he staggered back, his hands clutching at his hair, his whole body trembling with the force of emotions too big to contain. "I am not your beta!"

Pashmina flinched as if he had struck her. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she looked lost—like a mother reaching for a child who was slipping through her fingers.

Shubman's jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides, but he didn't speak. He didn't tell Aryaman to stop. He didn't tell him to lower his voice. Maybe, deep down, he knew they deserved this.

But Aryaman wasn't done. His vision blurred again, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over, but he refused to let them. "You weren't even going to tell me. You were just going to keep pretending—lying—until when? Until I never found out? Until it didn't matter anymore?"

Pashmina took another step toward him, desperation laced in her voice. "It always mattered. You always mattered."

Aryaman let out a hollow, broken laugh. "Then why did you hide the truth from me?"

Aryaman's face was flushed, his tears streaming freely now, staining his cheeks, his eyes red-rimmed, his nose and lips raw from the weight of his emotions. His chest rose and fell with every ragged breath as he glared at the man in front of him—the man he had called his father all his life.

"Will you just stand there like a statue or speak up?" His voice cracked, shaking with fury and heartbreak.

Little Innayat, who had been watching with wide, fearful eyes, flinched at the sound of his voice. A small whimper escaped her lips before she turned and buried herself into her grandparents' arms, her tiny hands clutching at their clothes as if their embrace could shield her from the storm unraveling before her.

The elders, who had been watching everything silently, exchanged glances but didn't interfere. Maybe they knew this moment was inevitable. Maybe they knew no words could soften what had already shattered.

When Shubman didn't respond, something inside Aryaman snapped. His whole body shook as he let out a sharp, furious shout.

"Answer me!"

Shubman's jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides, but still, he said nothing. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken.

Aryaman let out a hollow, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Of course," he spat. "Still quiet. Still pretending like nothing's wrong. Like I'm just supposed to accept this and move on."

His chest heaved, raw and aching. He looked at Pashmina now, his gaze burning through her, searching—begging—for something, anything that could make this make sense.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" he asked again, his voice quieter this time, but no less sharp. "Or was I supposed to live my whole life as your—your charity case without even knowing it?"

Pashmina gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Aryaman, no! How could you even think—"

"Then tell me!" he cut her off, his voice cracking. "Tell me the truth. Right now."

A beat of silence.

And then, finally, Shubman spoke. His voice was low, restrained, but laced with something almost as painful as Aryaman's own rage.

"You were never a charity case." His fists unclenched, his posture still rigid. "You were our son from the moment we held you in our arms."

"We were afraid," he admitted, his vulnerability slipping through the cracks. "Afraid of losing you. Afraid that knowing the truth would make you feel like... like less."

Aryaman's breath hitched. He had been bracing for excuses, for justifications, for anything but this—this honesty that cut deeper than any lie.

Shubman swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he had buried for years. "We wanted you to grow up without doubt, without questioning your place in this family. We never thought of you as anything but ours, Aryaman. Never." His voice wavered. "But we made a choice for you. We kept something from you that we shouldn't have."

Pashmina's eyes were brimming with tears, her hand still pressed over her mouth, as if holding back a sob.

Aryaman looked between them, his anger still burning, but beneath it—beneath all of it—was something dangerously close to breaking.

"You should've told me," he whispered. "I had a right to know."

Shubman nodded, his expression filled with nothing but regret. "Yes. You did."

"Now that you know... can we please go and have our dinner?" Shubman swallowed hard, his throat tight. "And maybe... maybe you can tell us where you found all this?"

Aryaman let out a hollow laugh, wiping at his damp cheeks with the back of his hand. "Does it matter?" His voice was rough, exhausted. "I know now. That's enough, isn't it?"

Pashmina stepped forward hesitantly. "Beta, please..."

But Aryaman shook his head, stepping back. "Don't. Just—don't." His voice cracked slightly, but he forced himself to look at them.

"Let's have dinner," he said, his tone eerily calm now, the storm settling into something colder. "Maybe our final dinner... before I decide to go to my real family."

Shubman's eyes burned with a mix of rage and sorrow, his breath hitching at Aryaman's words. The boy—their boy—talking like that made his heart stumble, made something deep inside him twist with helplessness.

Pashmina could feel it too, the way anxiety gripped them both like an iron fist. She could barely stand still, barely breathe.

But there was one thing they both knew, one thing neither of them would allow.

And so, in a firm, unwavering voice, they spoke together—as parents.

"You are not going anywhere."

Aryaman stilled. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You don't get to decide that."

Aryaman walked to the dining table, his legs heavy, his chest tight. He sat down and dug into his food, shoving mouthfuls in like it was the only thing keeping him steady. The same food he had eaten for fifteen years, the taste he had always loved.

Maybe for the last time.

He ate too fast, barely chewing, barely tasting. Tears rolled down his cheeks, hot and endless, but he didn't stop. The flavors—familiar, warm, comforting—felt different now, like they didn't belong to him anymore. Like he didn't belong here anymore. But still, he ate, swallowing past the lump in his throat, as if each bite could fill the hollow ache inside him.

Pashmina couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Every motherly instinct in her screamed to reach for him, to wipe his face, to soothe him like she always had—but something in the way he sat, hunched over his plate like a wounded animal, kept her frozen.

Shubman let out a heavy breath, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for Pashmina. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, then tightened, pulling her close—not just to steady her, but to steady himself.

His grip was firm, as if letting go would mean losing more than just this moment. As if it would mean losing him.

His voice, thick with emotion but resolute, left no room for doubt.

"He's not going anywhere."