March 18th.
The day the thread snapped.
The day the world I loved cracked quietly in three places — and I didn't even realize it until it was too late.
But now, I woke up with purpose.
I knew the fault lines. I knew the trigger points. I knew exactly when it would all start — 6:42 p.m., in the living room.
My father would return early, tired, humiliated after a meeting that hinted at layoffs.
My brother, full of youthful arrogance, would toss a sarcastic comment without realizing it would be the final straw.
And that would be it.
Voices raised.
A shattered photo frame.
My brother stormed out into the night with nothing but his wallet and cricket bat.
We never saw him again for five years.
---
But not this time.
This time, I was waiting.
---
The morning passed in slow, simmering silence. My brother joked about how I suddenly became nicer. I just smiled. I didn't want to risk saying the wrong thing.
Mom made lemon rice for lunch — Dad's favorite.
She was humming again.
And then, like clockwork, the front gate creaked open at 6:38 p.m.
I stood near the doorway as Dad walked in, his shoulders slouched, face unreadable. He looked around like the house itself might collapse on him.
No one else noticed it.
But I did.
"Hi, Appa," I said softly, before anyone else could. "Lemon rice is ready. Amma made it just how you like."
He blinked at me, surprised. Nodded. Sat down.
I moved quickly, filling his plate before he could ask. I pulled out his chair. These were gestures I had never done the first time — I used to roll my eyes, too caught up in my own teenage whirlpools to notice the cracks forming in his world.
He began to eat. Slowly. Mechanically.
And then, at 6:42 — right on cue — my brother entered, wiping sweat from his neck.
"Ah, the king returns," my father muttered under his breath.
My heart leapt.
Here it comes.
My brother didn't hear. Or pretended not to.
I could see it — the faint twitch in my dad's eyebrow, the way he held the spoon tighter, the flicker of disappointment burning under fatigue.
"I heard things didn't go well today," my brother said, placing his bat on the wall.
There it was.
That line. That one sentence that fractured everything.
The room tensed.
I didn't wait.
"Appa," I said quickly, cutting through the silence, "I was telling Anna about how hard you've been working. I mean, your whole team's under pressure, right? But you've kept it together. That's not easy."
My dad looked at me, stunned. My brother raised an eyebrow.
"But—" he started.
"Anna," I said firmly, gently, "maybe today we just… eat, yeah?"
My brother stared at me like I had grown another head.
But he sat.
My dad continued eating.
My brother stayed silent.
And the photo frame on the shelf? It stayed whole.
---
That night, I sat alone in the hall, the echoes of a disaster-that-didn't-happen still ringing in my ears.
One small nudge. One breath taken instead of shouted.
It was enough to rewrite a fracture.
---
I heard footsteps.
My father walked in, leaned against the doorframe.
"You okay?" he asked.
I looked at him — older now in my memory, but still sturdy in front of me. "Yeah," I said. "I just wanted to make sure you were."
He nodded slowly. Then, to my surprise, he sat beside me. In silence.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
For the first time in years — across time — we just sat together.
A father. A son. And a history that hadn't shattered.