Page 177 of Wasted Grace

“FIFTEEN?”

There’s so much despair in his voice you’d think someone told him India lost the ICC World Cup—again.

“Baby,” he sighs. “This could’ve waited until she was eighteen.”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal, which only makes me love her more. “She wanted to, Vik.”

She’s onmyside!

I glance between them, the question bubbling up before I can stop it. “Why did you learn to throw daggers, anyway?”

They share a look. It’s weird and knowing, and slightly amused.

Mumma tilts her head, pretending to think. “It was... therapeutic. Like I said. Just like it is for you.”

I squint at her. “Yeah, but... why daggers? Like, seriously. It’s not exactly yoga or painting.”

“She’s right,” Papa mutters. “You could’ve picked... running.”

Her face twists with disgust, but then she looks at me and smiles sweetly. “Well. Sometimes a woman’s gotta throw sharp objects to feel better.”

I blink. “That is not a real answer, Mumma.”

She leans closer to me, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper.

“Fine. I was a secret agent in the government. I sort ofhadto.”

Silence.

I stare. And then I burst out laughing.

Like actual wheezing, clutching-my-stomach, full-blown cackles. Papa snorts, then starts laughing too, like he’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“I can’t with you guys,” I say between laughs, wiping my eyes. “You’re bothinsane.”

Papa leans in, presses a kiss to Mumma’s cheek—then her lips.

“Gross,” I mutter, mock-gagging, even as a wide smile stretches across my face.

Papa lifts an eyebrow, still chuckling. “If you were a secret agent, baby...”

Mumma raises her chin, dramatic as ever.

He grins. “Then I was... hmm...” He pretends to think, eyes squinting like he’s solving a case. “Let’s say I helped bring down acrime ring.”

She gasps, hands on her chest. “You? Advik Sharma, who once cried because a pigeon flew into our balcony?”

“It was acrow. And it was aggressive, Gree,” he defends, deadpan. “You didn’t see its eyes.”

I laugh even harder, collapsing onto the couch as they start mock-arguing about crows versus daggers.

And in that moment—watching my dad tease my mumma, my mumma laugh so freely, and my little brother now drawing onthe old, chipped coffee table instead of paper—I don’t see blood ties or DNA.

I see a family.

My family.

THE END