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“I’m working on it,” she said. “I don’t need your investment, Dad. I—”

“Of course, you do,” he cut in. “That’s the least I can do for my daughter. Although I’m surprised Papa (Keshav Raichand) hasn’t offered to support you financially himself.”

The words hung in the air. Grandpa, who had caught every syllable, set his teacup down a little too loudly.

“Ritesh,” Grandpa said firmly, switching on to speaker mode. “Don’t you think if I wanted to do that, I already would have done it?”

There was a tense pause on the line.

“This is Nandini’s dream. Her business. She wants to build it from scratch and create her own identity. And I respect that. Maybe you don’t trust her capabilities, but I do. I will support her with my time, my guidance, and most importantly, my faith.”

Nandini blinked as a rush of gratitude rose inside her.

Her father chuckled awkwardly. “Fine, Papa. As you both wish. Though I still don’t understand why you’d turn down help.”

Grandpa didn’t reply. The silence between them said more than words could.

“Well,” Ritesh cleared his throat. “Happy New Year to you too, Papa.”

“Same to you both.” Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. “When are you planning to visit us?” he asked, his voice suddenly colder. “It’s been two years. Don’t you miss us?”

There was a beat of hesitation. “Work’s been hectic. We’ll try this year. But no one’s stopping you two from coming here.”

“Actually,” Nivedita chimed in, “it’d be great if you both came here. Even if not now, because of Nandini’s business setup, then in the next couple of months?”

And then Grandpa exploded.

“I can’t travel in the next couple of months!” he thundered. “That’s mango season. My wife’s tree bears fruit at that time. Who do you think plucks and distributes it to the children here? To the neighbours? You think I’ll leave her tree behind and go play houseguest in London?”

Ritesh sighed, his patience wearing thin. “Papa, come on. Someone else can do it. Let the gardener or someone else handle the mangoes this year.”

The moment he said it, Nandini winced.Wrong move, Dad.

There was a brief, heavy pause, and then it came.

Grandpa shot up from his seat, his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The clatter made Lakshmi Aunty flinch by the kitchen counter.

“I can’t believe you’re my son,” Grandpa said, his voice trembling with the force of barely restrained emotion. “That mango tree was planted by your mother. It’s not just a tree. It’s her presence, her memory, her love. You, of all people, should know what that means to me. And you want me to abandon it? Leave it behind for a trip disguised as a family visit?”

“Daadu…” Nandini stood quickly, rushing to his side. “Please calm down. Don’t let this ruin your morning.”

“I’m done!” Grandpa snapped, brushing past her and storming toward the stairs. “First, he questions why I haven’t funded your business, as if you’re incapable on your own, and now this. He wants me to forget my wife. Treat her tree like it’s just another plant.”

Nandini’s phone was still in her hand, her parents still on the line, but her eyes stayed fixed on her grandfather, who was already halfway up the stairs, his whole demeanour that of a man hurt and disappointed by his own flesh and blood.

She quickly lifted the phone back to her ear, switching off speaker mode. “Dad, that’s enough for now,” she said firmly, trying to keep her voice calm. “This isn’t the time. We can talk about everything else later. You both should rest.”

There was hesitation on the other end. Then her mother’s voice came softly, “Okay, sweetheart. Happy New Year again. We’ll call later.”

Nandini forced a small smile. “Goodnight, Mom. Dad.”

Her father grunted something unintelligible, and the call ended.

She exhaled deeply and turned back toward the stairs.

“Daadu, just finish your breakfast at least,” she pleaded, following him, her slippers padding quickly behind him.

But Keshav Raichand wasn’t listening. His foot landed on the staircase with too much force, and in his fury and hurt, he misjudged the step.