Page 83 of Scars and Crowns

Sometimes I wonder what it must feel like to move through the world carrying so much of other people inside your memory.

Then I remember . . . I've lived inside his memory for years without even knowing it. My fingers tighten unconsciously around my teacup. I look at Sara, happily adjusting her hibiscus in the reflection of the window, and then at Yuvaan quietly buttering her toast because she's become distracted again.

An unexpected thought settles gently somewhere inside me. If I'd spent the rest of my life searching . . . I still don't think I could've found her a better father. The realization doesn't arrive dramatically. It simply slips quietly into place. It's not only the way he loves her. It's the way he loves everyone entrusted to him. As a son, he carries his mother's guilt more gently than she carries it herself. As an elder brother, he lets Kairav win arguments he could settle in seconds, simply because seeing him laugh seems more important.

As a king . . . My chest tightens. I remember Kairav telling me about the council meeting. About thirty influential men learning exactly what happened if they dared speak about me with anything less than respect. I remember the buzz-cut disappearing from every member of staff within days without anyone ever telling me why. I remember the bookshop. The school fees. The flowers. The breakfasts. The way he catches every burden before I even admit I'm carrying it.

He has always loved through actions. Never announcements. Never speeches.

And perhaps . . . Perhaps that's why I believed him so easily all those years ago, even before I understood what love actually looked like.

"Sara." Amma Saheba laughs softly. "You were telling your mother something."

"Oh!" Sara immediately remembers. "Dadi told me there's a fair nearby."

My thoughts come to a complete stop.

Dadi.

Not Amma Saheba. Not the careful title she'd been using all week.

The word slips out so naturally she doesn't even seem aware she's said anything different. I slowly lower my teacup. Across the table, Amma Saheba's expression doesn't change. Which tells me everything. This isn't the first time she's heard it. She simply smiles into her tea, pretending not to notice the silence that's settled around the table.

My eyes move to Yuvaan. He's staring at Sara with the exact same surprise I'm sure is written across my own face. His expression softens so quickly it almost hurts to witness. There's something vulnerable there.

Something that belongs more to the little boy who always wanted a family than the Maharaja sitting at this breakfast table. Sara, blissfully unaware she's just rearranged everyone's hearts before breakfast, continues enthusiastically.

"Dadi said there'll be a Ferris wheel." She counts excitedly on her fingers.

"And colourful cotton candy."

"And balloons."

"And games."

She gasps.

"And tiny horses."

Then she clasps both hands dramatically beneath her chin. "Mister . . . " I know that expression. We're all doomed. "Please?"

He doesn't even pretend to think about it. "If my Princess wants to go to the fair . . . " His smile reaches all the way into his eyes. " . . . then we'll go."

Sara squeals. The chair scrapes loudly across the floor before she's out of it completely. A second later she's climbing into his lap with complete confidence, wrapping both arms around his neck. "Thank you!"

She kisses his cheek with noisy enthusiasm before launching into an explanation about exactly which ride they'll go on first. He laughs, holding her securely with one arm while trying very unsuccessfully to follow the speed of her words.

I sit quietly with my forgotten tea. The room buzzes with conversation around me. Amma Saheba asks whether they'll need hats because the afternoon sun will be strong. Sara immediately decides everyone should wear matching hats. Yuvaan somehow gets appointed responsible for buying them before he's even agreed.

Kairav wanders in halfway through the discussion and accidentally volunteers himself for carrying snacks. The whole table dissolves into cheerful chaos. And I . . . I simply watch. A strange warmth spreads through my chest.

Not relief. I've mistaken relief for happiness often enough over the last seven years to know the difference now.

Relief is finally reaching shore after nearly drowning.

This . . . .This feels lighter. Quieter. Like standing in sunlight after forgetting how warm it could be. My daughter is laughing. The woman she now calls Dadi is laughing with her. The man beside them looks happier than I've seen him in years.

And somehow . . . Somewhere along the way . . . It has all started feeling like home. I don't question it. I don't ruin it by wondering how long it will last.