Six months later, a letter arrived in Priya’s careful handwriting. Not an apology exactly—more a confession dressed as explanation. She wrote about growing up in a house where involvement meant love, where privacy didn’t exist, where control was a form of care. She said she hadn’t realized how much she’d overstepped. It wasn’t everything I needed—but it was a start.
We began seeing them again—restaurants, holidays, short visits with notice. We kept the house sacred for a while. When we finally invited them back, it was to a home with rules that weren’t negotiable: knock. Ask. Respect no. If the ground felt shaky, we ended the visit. People learn fast when access isn’t guaranteed.Continue reading…
