My stomach clenches.
Shit. I thought I was talking about Greesha. But I guess I wasn’t.
Not entirely. What the hell?
I feel the threads. The echoes. The way everything folds in on itself.
The patterns are the same. And I’ve been too blind—or maybe too scared—to recognize them.
“I thought I was talking about Gree,” I admit, voice hoarse. “But maybe it’s also about... Khushi.”
He nods. Softly. No pressure. Just... knowing. “I think your sister’s death, and the way it was... brushed aside because she was‘only’four months old, plays a deeper part than you let on. You’ve told me your parents never said it was your fault. But maybe that’s because she... stopped existing? They never acknowledged your place in it either.”
I try to laugh, but it sounds more like a cracked sob. “We never even said her name after that, Dr. Reza.Khushi. Vikram was eight. I was six. And no one ever called usthree siblingsagain. It was like... those four months didn’t count. Like she didn’t count.”
I bite my lip, feel it sting.
“Or maybe they wanted to forget that their own son—” I stop. My throat closes.
“Say it,” Dr. Reza urges gently. “Even if it’s not true. I want to hear what you feel.”
I look up, stunned. “Not true? Ikilledher, Dr. Reza. I held her in my arms. She was a baby. Took her into that stupid pillow fort I built. Left her there for a nap like she was a damn doll. And then I just...forgother.”
My voice cracks fully. And I hate it. I hate how easy it is to remember the details. The carpet pattern. The marble. The blur of guilt that’s lived inside me like a parasite.
“I went to play with that dumb neighbor kid—don’t even remember his name. I forgot Khushi was there. When I came back, she was gone. She rolled off the fucking couch. Face down on the marble floor. Four months old.”
My voice breaks completely by the end.
Dr. Reza says nothing. Just lets it hang. Because there’s nothing to say yet.
“Two days later, everything baby-related vanished from the house. Like magic. Crib, bottles, photos...gone. We never mentioned her again. No stories. No memories. Sometimes I feel like I made her up.”
I rub my hands down my jeans like I’m trying to rub the guilt out of my skin.
“But Vikram remembers. A little. I’ve heard him talk about her with my parents. And my parents—well—they obviouslyremember too. Just not out loud. Not to me. They didn’t want to bring her back.”
“Advik,” he says, voice lower now. Firmer. “We’ve discussed how your parents coped with grief. They didn’t memorialize. They tried to erase. And in that attempt to erase her, they erased you too. You made a mistake, yes—but it was a mistake no six-year-old should be carrying.”
I keep my eyes down.
“Look at me,” he urges.
I force myself to lift my gaze. Shame weighing on every muscle.
“You didn’t kill her. Think about this. As a father—would you ever leave your infant child in the care of a six-year-old? Would you leave your home, for any reason, because you believed a six and eight-year-old could manage a baby for two hours?”
I go rigid. Because no—I wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t. If I had a kid... if Greesha had a baby and I had to care for her—I wouldn’t let a child hold that responsibility. Not ever.
“No,” I whisper. “I wouldn’t.”
The words feel... awful and freeing all at once.
Because if I wouldn’t—then maybe my parents shouldn’t have either.
Maybe some of that blame I’ve carried wasn’t mine to begin with.
But I still remember her.
