My sister Roshni started using excuses to drop off her son Aarav on me. She said a dentist appointment. She said a business meeting. I believed her. I love Aarav. He’s four, funny, calls me “Moshi Aunty.”
One day she said she had a root canal. Without warning I watched Aarav while she “went to the dentist.”
We went to the mall. Ate mango sorbet. I saw her outside Zara laughing with friends, sipping boba. There was no dentist. No swollen cheek. She looked carefree.
Something in me snapped. I paid a waiter to take Aarav to the soft play zone. Then I followed my sister.
Her friends made a joke about Aarav being “Velcro with a voice.” She laughed.
I emerged from hiding. “Velcro with a voice? Is that what you’re calling your son now?”
She turned. Shock. Embarrassment.
I told her: “You don’t get to lie to me and treat your son like a handbag at coat check.”
Her face broke. But not completely.
That evening she came by my apartment. No makeup. Hair in a bun. She held a box of pastries from our old bakery. She cried. She said she messed up. She said she felt trapped, tired, missing who she used to be.
I said she could ask for help. She didn’t need to lie.
In the following weeks things changed. She found daycare. She started therapy. She respected boundaries. She texted in advance when she needed me.
One afternoon she surprised me. Brought Aarav with flowers. He wanted to see me.
Sometimes love hurts. Sometimes love demands you speak up.
