I had the least leverage in my house. Even the dog carried more respect than me—one bark and everyone listened. But that day was too important; I had to take charge.
I sat scratching my head, pretending to follow the idiotic TV drama flickering on the screen, when my eyes landed on my sister. In an instant, memories of last night’s quarrel flashed back—Mom lunging forward, fingers inches from my sister’s hair, me grabbing her wrist just in time.
What a waste. I could have saved that favor as ammunition for today. Instead, I sat there wanting to slap myself.
“Ask her what veggies she wants to eat,” my mother said, standing outside the main gate and pointing toward my sister.
She was half-bent over the vegetable cart, a steel bowl in her hand, the smell of coriander mixing with the dust from the road. The vendor kept shouting, “Fresh tomatoes, ten rupees!” but even he had started watching our family drama like it was Netflix.
I stepped outside and stood beside my sister, raising one eyebrow like the wrestler Rock—sniffing for anger, or maybe hoping to create some.
My sister stood just inside the gate, arms folded, face stiff. Only a few steps away from Mom—but really, two thick walls separated them. A wall of ego. A wall of misunderstanding. But now I decided to insert myself, the translator between them.
“I can eat anything,” my sister said, waving her hand lazily, as if vegetables were beneath her notice.
“Rihanna wants cauliflower,” I said, fully aware that cauliflower was Mom’s sworn enemy.
Mom raised her eyebrow, gripping a cauliflower like it was a grenade. My sister mirrored her, glaring at me through the bars of the gate.
“I said I can eat anything but cauliflower,” she hissed, flicking her hair back, nostrils flaring like a bull before a charge.
“Okay,” I rolled my eyes. “Mom, Rebecca wants to eat all types of flowers. Just pluck some roses, marigold, and feed her.”
My sister’s face turned red. “What the hell?” she barked, hands flying in the air.
“Mom, Rebecca wants you to go to hell,” I translated calmly, looking at Mom as if I were a professional interpreter at the UN.
Mom’s grip tightened around the flower bunch in her hand. Her jaw flexed. “Just tell her to go back to Mumbai.”
I nodded, dead serious. “Mom wants you to get lost.”
Rebecca stepped forward, her sandals scraping the floor. “I can hear that. I’m standing just a few steps away,” she snapped, glaring at me for enjoying this too much.
“So, what’s the rebuttal?” I shrugged. “Do you want me to tell her something?”
Her breathing grew louder, chest rising and falling like a bull ready to charge. For a second, I thought she might pounce on Mom right there. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut, pulled in a deep breath, and muttered, “Leave it. Let me not flare her anger more.”
“Mom,” I announced, widening my eyes, “Rebecca wants to leave you at the old age home and then flare up your anger there.”
Rebecca’s patience broke. She charged toward me, sandals thudding on the floor. I bolted toward Mom, nearly toppling the vegetable cart.
“Mom, she wants to kill me along with you!” I yelled, hiding behind her like a coward soldier.
That was the last straw. Mom planted her feet firmly, blocking Rebecca like a goalie. “You want to kill us both now? Can I know why?”
I gasped dramatically, clutching my chest. “She wants the property, Mom. Once she gets it, she’ll throw us on the street.”
Rebecca stopped short, face red, fists clenched. “I don’t need anything from the family. I have enough.”
I took a step back and, before Mom could calm down, blurted out, “See, Mom?” I pointed at Rebecca like a lawyer making his final argument. “She thinks she’s too rich to take anything from you or Dad. How preposterous!”
Mom’s lips trembled. For a moment, she looked not just upset—but poor. She spotted my father strolling past with his hands behind his back, as if he had accidentally entered the wrong movie set.
“That’s why I keep asking your father to buy me new clothes. But he never listens.”
Father froze, eyebrows jumping. “Why was the shopping topic back again?” he muttered. He sighed so loudly it sounded like air escaping a tyre, then pulled out his wallet. Without a word, he handed over his credit card like he was surrendering his life savings.
Mom’s face lit up—relieved, victorious. She waved the card in the air like a trophy and then threw it toward Rebecca.
“Now you’ll know how rich I am,” she declared.
Rebecca caught it, frowning. Her voice dropped to a whisper, sharp enough to cut air. “Only an idiot would think you’re poor. And I’m not an idiot, Mom.”
“She called you an idiot, Mom,” I announced in my courtroom voice again, widening my eyes.
Mom’s chest rose and fell so heavily, the cars on the road swayed in the hot wind. Rebecca matched her, shoulders stiff, eyes narrowed. Both stood like two boxers about to ring the bell.
I tiptoed to my father, whispering, “Now we can watch the Cricket World Cup final in peace. They’d rather kill each other than either of us—even if we ask for the TV remote.”
I winked at him.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then—thwack—his palm landed on my eye.
“The match is cancelled,” he said, shaking his head. “Now I have to take your mom shopping.”
I rubbed my eye and turned back. Mom and Rebecca had stopped glaring at each other. Their heads tilted toward me. They had found a common enemy.
The dog barked—“Woof, leverage!”—just to remind me he still ranked higher.
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