Page 94 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

Mom slumped on the couch, and Dad turned his attention to her.

“What is this, Mom?”

“She doesn’t feel good, Mihir. We can talk about it later,” Dad said sternly.

“Later?” My roar was so loud the echoes came back to me twice. “Thirty-five years later?”

Mom startled, then looked at Dad and patted his hand. He sank beside her.

“Is this true?” I demanded.

They exchanged nervous looks.

“How much did you understand?” Dad asked.

“All of it!” I bellowed again. “Is. It. True?” I enunciated.

Dad returned a nod so slight it didn’t seem like he had moved at all. They weren’t looking at me anymore. Their gazes had sunk to the floor.

“Who am I?” I asked.

“You are our son,” Dad said, looking up at me for a brief second.

“And this woman?” I held out the letter again.

“Your birth mother.”

“Are you my father?”

He met my eyes this time. “We are your parents, Mihir.”

“Are you my biological father?” I rephrased.

He turned his eyes to the floor and shook his head.

“Who is my father?”

Another shake of his head.

“I don’t understand. Was I adopted?”

He nodded.

“No, Dad,” I demanded. “I need you to explain it in words.”

My anger had now turned into tears dripping down my face. Unable to bear my condition, Mom wept silently. Dad stayed calm, but I noted a gentle tremor in his hand when he held Mom’s and clutched it tight.

“Who am I?” I asked again, the impudent tears now rushing brazenly down my face.

“You are our son,” Dad repeated, maintaining his calm composure. “Nothing can ever change that.”

I didn’t know what I had hoped for when I decided to confront them, but I felt like my heart was about to explode. I couldn’t do it. I rushed out of the house, the letter and translation in my hand, leaving my parents in agony.

My first instinct had been to call Sona. I needed her. I knew she’d understand what I was going through. But could she, really? She had loved a stranger because I didn’t know who I was anymore.

I couldn’t do that to Sona. I couldn’t drag her into this mess. If my parents were hiding the truth because they were ashamed, how could I expect Sona to love me?

She loathed drama. Anju’s catty appearance had nearly destroyed our relationship. What would she do with this? I had to protect her from this mess—from the stigma and the scandal—because the question remained: Who was I?

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