Twenty-five years ago, Aunt Ratna’s life collapsed overnight. Her husband, Arman, abandoned her for a nightclub hostess he couldn’t resist. Ratna was left with nothing — no alimony, no property, no support. Just tears, broken trust, and two children who were only ten and fifteen at the time.
It was Uncle Surya — my father — who picked up the pieces. He took responsibility for his sister, helped raise her children, and paid for their schooling until they could stand on their own.
Years passed. Aunt Ratna passed away a decade ago, but her children grew up resilient, successful, and financially secure.
Then came the news: Arman, the man who had walked away from them, was sick and alone. The woman he left their mother for had already died, and the children from that affair wanted nothing to do with him. Desperate, he turned back to the children he had once abandoned.
“Take care of your father,” he pleaded.
Their answer was cold, sharp, and final:
“Never!”
People whispered that they were ungrateful, that they were being cruel to their own flesh and blood. But who truly understood the scars left behind? Scars from losing their mother’s happiness, from growing up with the pain of betrayal, from being treated as disposable.
When Arman went to my father, asking him to mediate and reconnect him with his children, my father — a man known for his patience — lost his temper. He drove Arman away with a garden broom.
“Get out! Don’t ever set foot here again!”
It was the only time I ever saw my father’s anger boil over. And I understood why. Arman hadn’t just hurt Ratna, he had wounded the whole family, forcing them to shoulder the burden of his betrayal.
Now people may call my cousins heartless, but to them, honoring their late mother’s dignity mattered far more than offering sympathy to a father who was never there.
Sometimes, karma doesn’t need to be summoned. It arrives on its own, right on time.
