BANG. BANG. BANG.
"isha! Wake up! Don't make me come in there!"
Ah yes. Nothing like being woken up by a full-blown military knock from your mother to remind you that you're still living in the same house where your childhood dreams came to die.
That's my mom, Not to be confused with just a mom. She's a special edition:
Comes with built-in emotional guilt trip, Voice loud enough to startle birds mid-flight and a radar that detects when you're pretending to sleep.
"Don't forget we are leaving at eleven!" she adds.
Now listen. I need you to understand something upfront:
I hate family gatherings.
The noise, the overlapping conversations, the questions that sound like compliments but feel like interrogations. "Oh, you're freelancing? That's so... flexible."
Yes, auntie. Flexible. Like my last shred of dignity.
But that's not the worst part.
The real reason I hate these gatherings is not because of the noise, or even the endless photo sessions.
The reason goes way deeper than that.
But we'll get there.
first — tea, concealer, and the emotional armor I keep right next to my blush palette.
I open the door. The house is already awake. Loud. Crowded.
I can hear the metal-on-metal clatter of pans, the overlapping voices, and someone—probably Mom—yelling over it all.
I could go back into my room. Pretend I didn't hear it.
But unfortunately, I need tea.
I head toward the kitchen, dodging laundry baskets and a random cushion that doesn't belong in the hallway.
someone is already at the table. Laptop open. Tea in hand. Judging me silently.
Pause.
That's Ahana. My sister.
Software engineer. Married. Moved out. Still manages to micromanage from three hours away.
She was the first of us — the golden child. Straight A's. Science fairs. National math competitions and what not.
Now she's the kind of person who says, "I just rewrote the entire backend last night,"
She glances at me, then back to her laptop.
I pass her and step into the kitchen.
Mom glances at me. "Finally awake?"
I just smile.
There's no right answer here.
"Get ready, Isha," she says as she turns to me. "We're leaving in an hour. Don't forget we need to be at your cousins for the engagement party."
The words hang in the air for a second. The engagement party. Right.
The thought of it fills me with that same, familiar dread. The extended family. The constant chatter. The endless rounds of "So, when are you getting married?" "What's next for you?" "Have you thought about a career change?"
I make myself a cup of tea.
one teaspoon sugar. A little strong. The way I like it.
I hold it in both hands and breathe in the steam. That first sip is everything. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
It's the only part of this morning I'm actually ready for.
Behind me, Ahana is already talking to someone on her Bluetooth. Something about pushing a deadline.
I tune it out.
I don't want to hear about deadlines or sprints or release cycles.
I don't want to talk about my work either
Freelance life sounds cool until someone asks you how much you make and you have to say, "It depends."
I sip again. Let it burn a little this time.