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09:59, 17 June 2025

Author’s POV

The clock read 2:04 AM.

The Sharma residence was asleep — or supposed to be.

Except for the light in the kitchen.

Samaira walked in slowly, clutching the end of her oversized hoodie. Her footsteps were soft, hesitant.

She wasn’t sure why she came down. Maybe the silence upstairs was too loud. Maybe the weight on her chest needed space to breathe.

But she didn’t expect to see him.

Rohit.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, his hair messy, eyes tired, a half-empty cup of chai in front of him.

He looked up, surprised but not startled.

> “Samaira… couldn’t sleep?”

She nodded faintly, not meeting his eyes.

> “Nightmare.”

He stood up instantly, concern flashing across his face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine, sir. Just needed water.”

He didn’t press further.

Instead, he poured her a glass himself, handed it gently, then motioned toward the chair beside his.

She sat down slowly. Her hands trembled slightly as she took a sip.

Silence settled between them. But it wasn’t heavy. It was the kind that waits — patiently, kindly.

> “You used to drink warm milk before sleeping?” Rohit asked softly.

Samaira shook her head. “They… didn’t let me ask for things.”

His heart twisted.

He got up, wordlessly warmed a glass of milk, added a pinch of turmeric the way Ritika did for Ahaan when he was younger.

He placed it in front of her.

She looked at it for a second, then whispered:

> “Thank you… sir.”

Rohit smiled gently, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

There was a pause.

And then, out of nowhere — her voice again.

> “They… used to tell me that no one wanted me. That I was a mistake. A burden.”

Rohit froze.

Samaira didn’t cry. She just said it flatly. Like she’d repeated it to herself so many times, it had become a fact.

But then she added — almost inaudibly:

> “But you… you came.”

Her fingers curled tightly around the glass.

> “You came and brought me here. And you didn’t… send me away. Even when I was too quiet. Or awkward. Or when Ahaan sir—” she stopped. “—when he didn’t want me.”

Rohit reached over, placing his hand on hers.

And she let him.

> “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said hoarsely. “I should’ve fought harder, earlier. I should’ve been there from the start.”

She looked up at him finally. Her eyes were glassy but calm.

> “You’re here now.”

Rohit’s throat closed up.

Then—slowly, nervously—she leaned forward and placed her head against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her instantly. Carefully. Like she might break.

And then came the words, barely a whisper. The softest sound in the world.

> “Papa…”

Time stopped.

Rohit didn’t speak. He just held her tighter, burying his face in her hair, his heart shattering and healing all at once.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was two broken hearts finally finding their rhythm again.

Together.

---

Author’s Note:Sometimes, the smallest word carries the weight of a lifetime. And sometimes, calling someone papa isn’t just love — it’s forgiveness.

Author’s POV

Morning crept in slowly, sunlight pouring in through the glass windows of the Sharma residence. The house was calm… almost deceptively so.

Downstairs, Ritika was already in the kitchen, flipping through messages on her phone while preparing breakfast. The usual calm was there — but her heart was heavy. She hadn’t slept well, thinking of Samaira. Thinking of how Ahaan barely acknowledged her. Thinking of Rohit, who sat in the study till late.

> Poor girl… she’s only thirteen, she thought, biting her lip.

Then came the sound of soft footsteps.

Ritika turned.

Samaira was walking in — oversized hoodie still on, hair slightly messy from sleep, but her eyes…

Something was different.

She looked… not happy. But softer.

“Good morning, beta,” Ritika said, setting down a plate.

Samaira nodded faintly.

> “Good morning… ma’am.”

Ritika’s heart pinched — still "ma’am." Still distance.

But then—

Another set of footsteps behind her.

Rohit.

He walked in, hair damp from his shower, T-shirt wrinkled, eyes finding only one person.

Samaira turned around slowly when she sensed his presence. And then, casually, quietly, she said the word that made Ritika freeze mid-motion.

> “Good morning… papa.”

Ritika dropped the spoon in her hand.

Rohit blinked. Samaira didn’t even seem to notice her own words.

It was as if it had… settled in her now.

As if it was no longer something she feared.

As if it was the most natural word in the world.

> Papa.

Ritika turned away, quickly brushing her eyes before anyone could see the tears. Her hands trembled as she picked up the spoon again.

Rohit, however, walked over and simply touched Samaira’s shoulder with a gentle squeeze.

She looked up at him and smiled—just a tiny one.

A smile that was real.

Upstairs, from the hallway railing, Ahaan stood, silently watching.

He saw her call him "papa."

He saw the look in her eyes — that quiet trust.

And for a moment — a flicker of something passed through his gaze.

Not forgiveness. Not yet.

But something cracked.

He turned away quickly, jaw tight, slipping back into his room without a word.

---

Author’s Note:

The deepest changes don’t begin with grand declarations.

They begin with a small word, casually spoken, that melts years of distance.

And somewhere… in that one word — papa — was all the healing she had been waiting to begin.

Author’s POV

Later that afternoon, the house had settled into its usual hush. Ahaan was locked in his room, music spilling faintly from under the door. Rohit had gone for a meeting at the stadium. And Samaira… was sitting in the corner of the library, curled up on the recliner with a book she wasn’t really reading.

She turned the same page five times.

Her mind wasn’t here.

It kept replaying what she said that morning.

> “Papa.”

She had called him that. Freely. For the first time.

And he hadn’t stopped her. He had smiled — like it meant the world.

Her thoughts were still tangled when a soft voice broke through them.

> “Tum yahan ho, Samaira?”

Ritika.

Samaira sat up straight, a little stiff again.

> “Yes, ma’am.”

Ritika walked in slowly, holding a small plate of freshly cut mangoes.

> “Tumhe mango pasand hain na?” she asked, setting it gently on the table nearby.

Samaira blinked. “Haan… kaafi,” she admitted quietly.

Ritika sat down across from her, but didn’t reach out. She gave her space.

> “Aaj subah… tumne usse ‘papa’ kaha.”

Samaira froze.

Her eyes flickered to Ritika’s face.

> “Sorry… ma’am,” she said quickly. “Woh… bas… muh se nikal gaya. Mujhe nahi kehna chahiye tha agar—”

> “Samaira,” Ritika interrupted softly, her voice trembling slightly, “tumhe kisi cheez ke liye sorry kehne ki zarurat nahi hai.”

Samaira looked down at her lap, her voice barely audible now.

> “Main bas… thoda confused ho jaati hoon kabhi kabhi. Aap dono itne ache hain… lekin main… main theek se adjust nahi kar pa rahi.”

Ritika’s eyes welled up, but her smile was warm.

> “Beta… koi rule book nahi hoti maa-beti banne ki. Tum jaise ho, waise hi theek ho.”

Samaira glanced up, unsure.

> “Main agar aapko ‘ma’am’ bolti rahun… toh bhi chalega?”

> “Bilkul,” Ritika whispered. “Bas mere paas raho. Utna kaafi hai mere liye.”

A pause. Then Samaira reached for a slice of mango, hesitating a second before offering it to Ritika first.

> “Aap bhi lijiye.”

Ritika’s heart melted at the gesture. She took the mango quietly and smiled.

They didn’t say much after that.

But in that silence — between sweet mango slices and warm sunlight — a bond began to mend itself.

Not loudly.

Not all at once.

But gently, like sunlight softening a cold room.

---

Author’s Note:

She may still call her “ma’am.” She may still flinch at hugs. But healing has no deadline — and love doesn’t always need a title to grow.

Author’s POV

It was late evening. The golden hour had dipped into a burnt orange haze, painting the Mumbai skyline outside the windows of the Sharma residence.

In their bedroom, Ritika stood by the window, arms folded, brows furrowed. Her phone was in her hand, screen still glowing with a news portal.

> “They’re calling her ‘unwanted baggage’,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Some are even asking if she’s the reason you lost focus in last season’s IPL.”

Rohit, seated on the edge of the bed, clenched his jaw.

He stood up abruptly.

> “That’s it.”

He grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV. A news debate was playing already — panelists throwing wild theories about Samaira’s “sudden appearance,” gossip segments speculating drama between Rohit and Virat, the media picking apart every word from his last press conference.

And the comment section…

The filth was endless.

> “Ahaan Sharma deserves better.” “That girl looks nothing like them.” “She’s ruining India’s captain’s image.” “Must be some illegitimate scandal child Rohit adopted to clean up.”

Ritika turned it off, her hands shaking.

> “She’s thirteen, Rohit. Just a kid. If she ever sees this—”

> “She won’t,” Rohit snapped. “Main ensure karunga. And if anyone in this house lets her feel one percent less than what she is, I’ll throw them out myself.”

There was rage in his voice now — tightly contained, but deadly.

He turned toward Ritika.

> “Ahaan… he needs to stop this too. He’s crossing lines.”

Ritika’s eyes glistened. “He’s hurting too, Ro. He’s confused, he’s angry…”

> “He’s cruel, Ritika,” Rohit said, voice soft but sharp. “Confusion doesn’t give you permission to throw daggers at your sister every time you cross her in a hallway.”

He paused, eyes burning.

> “And she’s my daughter. Main uske liye duniya se lad gaya hoon. I’ll be damned if I can’t fix my own home.”

---

Meanwhile…

Downstairs, Samaira sat on the living room floor, trying to arrange a jigsaw puzzle quietly. The warm lights hummed around her, but her world was slowly dimming.

She heard voices — not in the house — but faint, from outside. Through the slightly open window, she could hear two housemaids murmuring near the staff quarters.

> “You saw the news? Poor Ahaan baba… suddenly he has to share everything with that girl.”

> “Upar se log kya kya bol rahe hain online… keh rahe hain ladki na jaane kahan se aayi hai…”

> “Humare toh kaam badh gaye. Pata nahi madam kyun laaye usse wapas.”

The puzzle piece in Samaira’s hand trembled. She put it down, slowly backed away from the window, and walked upstairs without a sound.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

She just went to her room, pulled the blanket over herself, and stared at the wall.

Everything felt heavy again.

---

Author’s Note:

It’s one thing to fight the world.

It’s another to keep standing when even home feels like a battlefield.

But Rohit Sharma — not the cricketer, but the father — was ready to fight both.

For his daughter.

For his Samaira.

Author’s POV

The next morning, the air inside the Sharma residence was uncomfortably stiff.

It wasn’t about the Mumbai humidity — it was something colder, something more poisonous that had started to seep into the walls of the once warm household.

Rohit was in the foyer, tying his shoelaces for a short training session when he paused. He could hear the faint sound of laughter — not joyful, but mocking — coming from the back kitchen.

And then he heard it.

> “Did you see the way she walks? Na kapdon ka sense hai, na tameez ka. Achanak se princess ban gayi…”

> “Madam ke muh se ‘laado’ sunte hi toh hansi chali aayi mujhe. Raani ban ke baithi hai chhoti si.”

> “Arey, Rohit sir ki asli beti hoti toh kab ka media mein dikhaya hota. Kuch toh gadbad hai.”

Rohit’s blood turned to ice.

He stood up slowly, took one long breath, and marched toward the staff corridor.

The second the maids spotted him, their faces drained of color.

> “S-Sir…”

> “Chup,” Rohit’s voice thundered — no bat, no field, no crowd, yet it echoed like a stadium roar.

> “Aap log kaam karne ke liye rakhe gaye ho, zubaan chalane ke liye nahi.”

They fumbled, eyes darting.

> “Sir… hum toh bas—”

> “Main tum sabko warning de raha hoon. Ek aur baar… ek aur baar bhi meri beti ke baare mein aisi baat ki, toh seedha nikaal diya jaayega.”

His voice lowered but turned razor-sharp.

> “Aur haan… woh meri beti hai. Biological. Samjhe?”

The word biological hung heavy in the air like a slap.

> “Uski aankhon mein aansu aaye na, toh main kisi ko nahi chhodunga. Ab se agar kisi ne usse ‘dusri’, ‘alag’, ya ‘parayi’ nazar se dekha bhi… toh main tumhara wajah bhool jaaunga ki tum mere ghar mein kaam karte ho.”

The maids nodded rapidly, eyes fixed on the floor.

Rohit turned on his heel, his jaw clenched tight.

But as he passed the stairs… he froze.

Because Samaira was standing halfway up, a glass of water in her hand, her eyes wide.

She had heard everything.

For a second, she didn’t speak. Her expression unreadable.

> “papa…” her voice was barely a whisper. “Main bas… paani lene aayi thi.”

He nodded, stepping closer. He didn’t touch her — not yet — just looked into her big, searching eyes.

> “You don’t deserve to hear things like that,” he said softly. “And I’ll make sure you never do again.”

She didn’t reply.

But she didn’t walk away either.

And somehow, that was progress.