The worst thing is discovering that you built your identity inside a story written by other people.
My father wrote the beginning.
Avinash continued it.
Ishwari helped hide the pages.
But they made one mistake.
They assumed they would also write the ending.
They didn’t.
I did.
And if you were standing in that hospital corridor in my place—discovering your husband’s second wife was actually your own sister, and that your entire marriage began as a bargain—would you ever forgive any of them? Tell me what your heart says in the comments, and follow the page, because some endings do not close a story—they reveal the woman who was waiting all along to begin her own.
