Chapter 1: The Daughter
The sun hadn't even risen, but Erica was already awake-pouring chai into steel cups with one hand, checking her college notes with the other.
Her mother sat on the sofa peeling potatoes, muttering about gas prices and nosy neighbors. The kitchen fan hummed above, tired and noisy, like it had been running for years without a break. Kind of like her.
"You didn't iron your kurti," her mother said casually, not looking up.
"It's fine. I'll wear the blue one," Erica replied, sipping her chai.
They didn't argue much. Her parents weren't the controlling kind. They let her wear what she wanted-jeans, crop tops, even kurtis with slits that made aunties whisper. Her father told her to study hard, become independent, even start her own business if she wanted.
But feminism? That word never entered their home. Not seriously.
Because in this house, love and gender roles lived in the same room. Her parents believed in her dreams-but not enough to ask Aryan, her younger brother, to cut onions or sweep the floor. That was Erica's job. Naturally. Silently.
"He's a boy. He'll learn later," her mother once said, when Erica brought it up. "You don't need to act like a rebel all the time."
It wasn't anger she felt. Just... a quiet ache. A feeling of being seen, but only partially. Loved, but with expectations. Supported, but still boxed in.
She didn't blame them. They were good people, really. They cheered when she won art competitions. They told relatives how proud they were. They bought her a secondhand laptop when she got into the design program.
But they also expected the daal to be cooked before she left. And the clothes folded. And the guests served.
"We love you and Aryan equally," her father would say.
And she'd nod. Of course. But inside, her heart whispered:
"Then why does it feel different?"
That morning, Aryan slept peacefully while she packed his tiffin. He had no idea how light his life was. How many invisible weights she carried-responsibility, expectation, emotional labor-all passed down like family heirlooms.
She didn't ask for much. Just to be understood. Just to be allowed to be tired sometimes.
But Indian daughters don't say they're tired.
They just keep going.
