Gāyathri drew her knees to her chest, pressing her thighs to her stomach, hoping to deafen her thundering heart. But it did stop the truth from bouncing in her head.

Karthik was right in insisting she was his aunt. Anusree was correct in her silent acknowledgement of Karthik's stance.

Her father was their grandfather.

That meant that Chandra was her half brother and not the distant but helpful relative she had presumed him to be. And she had thought Lavanya to be her father's other wife.

Gāyathri cringed as she thought about it, mortification creeping up her spine. 'Why? Simply because her grandmother had addressed her as 'Kodallu pilla', which was not strange considering she was a young woman and most importantly her son's daughter in law. 'Kodallu pilla' was an accepted affectionate term'.

She had jumped to conclusions, for deep down that assumption lent weight to her belief that her mother had been wronged.

And each realisation brought her closer to the unwelcome truth.

The truth that her father had hidden from her; he had been married long before he had even met her mother.

And distasteful as it was, she had to admit that her Vani atta was right. Her mother had lied. She had never been the wronged wife who had been denied her rightful place. Rather, she was and would always be the other woman in her father's life.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

"Atta, Atta, aattaaaa..."

The scream broke through her haze. Raising her head, she looked into Karthik's worried face and mumbled, "I am fine, I think I did not take my medicine today, so am feeling a little giddy. Do not worry."

That explanation satisfied the kids, for Karthik promptly declared his victory to Anusree, "See akka, I am right. She is our atta. And that is what we call her from now."

And exulting in the childish victory, he left the album at her feet and ran out. Gāyathri heard him rush out of the room, yet his receding footsteps still echoed in her head. She wanted to hate him, but over the past few days, he had wormed his way into her heart. It was surprising, she had grown to love him when she had thought he was her half brother. Now that she had learnt that he was her nephew, her emotions were conflicted.

His laughter faded away and the album remained behind; with a mere flick of pages, he had broken her world. Her eyes were drawn to another photograph. A proud Anusree holding Karthik who just barely managed to stand in front of the table with the cake. Behind them stood Chandra and Lavanya, their arms draped around each other's waist, eyes shining with love for each other and their children. Her father stood beside Chandra while his wife stood beside Lavanya.

She turned the pages, the photographs slowly flipping over. Different people, different poses, different expression; only one thing was constant. Her father and his wife were rarely in the same frame and even if they were, they always stood apart from each other.

A reluctant fascination drew Gāyathri towards that woman, a woman whose name she did not know but had hated all her life. A woman whom she believed had ruined her mother's chance at happiness. Instead, it had been her mother who had stolen that woman's right.

She hated herself as she recalled the malice that, till moments ago, had filled her. A hatred she had borne for most of her life, based on a lie she had believed.

Gāyathri held the album flat, back at the centre spread. Her finger wavered over that woman and she heard Anusree answer her unspoken query, "My nanamma, Anusuya. I am named after her. She died two years ago."

Pity flooded her, or was that sympathy? That woman had lived and died, with the knowledge that someone had stolen her husband, someone had taken her rightful place in his life and heart. 'How had she felt? Had she been angry or upset or stoic? Her mother had often berated her, but did she deserve it? Was she truly a nag as her mother had insisted she was or was her mother being mean?'

She wanted to scream, but that would frighten Anu and bring the rest of the family members running to her room. She could not face anyone now. Gāyathri squeezed her eyes close trying to ease her breath, the tears escaped and she let them run; there was a limit to what she could hold on to.

The truth was terrible, yet it helped her make up her mind. She had to leave, there was no place for her in this house. They had been right in ignoring her and were being kind to an orphan girl. She would not infringe on their generosity any further, her presence was a constant reminder of how her father had wronged them.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Pulling herself up from the ground, she stood and made her way to the wardrobe. She took out her suitcase when she heard Anusree apologise.

"I am sorry..."

"For what?"

It was sharp. Gāyathri had not intended to sound a brute but she had forgotten that Anusree was still around. She turned to the young girl, mature than her years, far mature Gāyathri had been when she was eight years old. She snorted at that thought, she was not very mature at eighteen years either. Unable to say anything, she gently patted the girl on her head.

Anusree gave a warm smile. "You are packing your suitcase. Are you planning to go away? Please can you not stay? We like you a lot. It does not matter whether you are my akka or my atta."

Brushing off her tears, she walked towards the child. She could not be rude and a sobbing mess in front of a young girl. Bending down, she placed a hand on the troubled girl's shoulder.

"Anu, I am not angry with you. Or with Karthik. I promise. And I am not going away. It is just that I have some work in my hometown, my tatha is not feeling well. I want to see him."

Liar. Could you not think of a better reason? Using your tatha's imaginary illness is not only pathetic, but it is also cowardly too.

She was both, but she did not care, she was not going to dump her emotions on the little girl. Her decision to leave was the best one, even if she could not tell the reasons.

When Anusree nodded her understanding, she gave a wan smile. She straightened and hobbled to the desk; her right foot had gone numb on her. There was one last thing she needed to pack, her jar of notes.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

She pulled the jar towards herself and pulled the lid off. It was messy, not orderly as it had been when she had first seen it. The treasured trinkets were no longer visible among the pieces of paper. The notes she had read, she did not fold them, rather she stuffed them below so that the unread notes would be at the top. She had read most of them, there were only a few folded ones.

As she stared at the jar, a reassurance filled her. It was strange and ridiculous too; that she should take comfort from that silly fact. But she was suddenly thrilled that she was her father's only daughter. It meant that the note her father had written about daughters was for her.

A gossamer strand of a tiny truth, but one that glinted in the dark numbness that was filling her.

The notes were the only tangible truth she now had to her father. Maybe he had known she would need courage and guidance, and had written them down for her. All the notes she had read had served to comfort or advise her. She would treasure them forever.

Holding the jar close to her heart, it felt heavy, she faced the bed where her open suitcase lay. She would wrap the jar with a couple of her dresses before placing it in the suitcase.

"That is tatha's jar!"

Gāyathri nodded, warmth filling her. Her father's jar and now hers. Only hers. "Yes, I got it for him. I did not know he kept it safe for all these years."

"It is a pretty jar. Tatha would never let us touch it for he was afraid it would break. Even Karthik knew that. It was his memory jar, where he saved all the things that you gave him. And a few things which we gifted to him."

The weight of the jar vanished with those words and a hint of a smile crossed her face. Standing at the desk, she reached inside to pull out a note. Maybe it would be one that would let her know if her decision was right.

"And those are his practice notes."

The wisps of warmth that Gāyathri felt turned into pricks of ice, "practice notes?"

"Yes, when tatha fell ill, doctor uncle said he had to do something to reduce stress. So taatha started writing practice, I think it is calli...calligraphy, a prettier form of penmanship. He would practice in his notebook and when he felt he could write it prettily enough, he would write on those notes and put them in the jar. He practised for a few months and then stopped. I have never..."

The jar slipped as her fingers went slack. Time slowed as the jar fell. Anusree's words resounded in her head and she did not attempt to catch her jar.

With a loud crash, her world shattered.