I never imagined my father to be so meticulous — or that he could hide his emotions so deeply.

I’m the youngest child in my family. I have two older brothers. My mother passed away when I was just over a year old, before I even learned how to say “Mama.” Three years later, my father remarried. He married Aunty Meera — a small, quiet woman. I grew up under her care.

She would cook porridge and feed me spoon by spoon when I was a weak 4-year-old who barely looked three. She took me to school and waited for me at the gate every day. On my first day of first grade, she was beaming with pride, like I was her own child. In my memory, Aunty Meera was never a stranger — she was “Ma” in her own special way.

But my two elder brothers never saw her that way.

They were 10 and 13 when she moved in, and they hated her from the beginning. They constantly disrespected her. I often heard them whispering, “She’s just a stepmom, there’s no way she’s truly good.” They told me not to trust her and always warned me to stay alert.

My eldest brother would say, “You’re too naive. She’s only pretending to care for you to gain Dad’s trust. She’s just a stepmother.”

They filled my head with doubt. I believed them at one point — even argued with Aunty Meera, and once I went as far as cutting up her clothes out of spite. But when I saw her crying alone in the room that night… I broke down and cried too.

As I grew older, I began to understand something: though we didn’t share blood, she was far more caring and kind than most real mothers. So why should I hate her?

I stopped listening to my brothers and treated her better — even started calling her “Maa Meera.”

One evening, I saw my father hugging her, gently telling her to be patient with my brothers because they had lost their mother too soon. She just wiped her tears and nodded. She truly was gentle — even when my brothers shouted or insulted her, she never raised her voice, never raised a hand.

Perhaps that’s exactly why they took advantage of her.

Eventually, my two brothers got married and moved out. The house was left with just me, my father, and Maa Meera.

At the beginning of this year, my father’s health declined rapidly. I don’t know what happened between him and Maa Meera, but he began snapping at her over small things.

Once, when both my brothers visited with their wives and children, my father shouted and kicked Maa Meera out of the house in front of everyone. She looked devastated, but said nothing. She stayed and waited for him to calm down.

Last month, my father called all of us home for a “family meeting.” I was the last to arrive due to an urgent meeting at work. When I returned home, the atmosphere was heavy. Maa Meera was silently packing her clothes into a suitcase.

My father said coldly:
“From now on, there’s nothing between me and that woman. She should leave. I don’t want to see her face again.”

I panicked. I begged him to explain, but he said nothing more. As always, Maa Meera stayed quiet. She gave me a sad smile and said,
“Don’t say anything, beta. It’s alright. I’ll go.”

The image of her fragile frame dragging that suitcase through the gate will stay with me forever. I wanted to go after her — but my father shouted and stopped me.

Two weeks later, he passed away.

The funeral was simple. Surprisingly, it was Maa Meera who managed everything — like a devoted widow. Afterward, she left quietly. My brothers didn’t invite her to stay. In fact, they told each other that maybe Dad kicked her out before dying so she wouldn’t claim any inheritance.

After the 13th-day mourning rituals were completed, the three of us sat down to divide the property: one large plot of land, a three-story house, and two small fields. Everything was distributed — one share for each son.

It seemed like that was the end of it.

Until just a few days ago — I met my father’s closest friend, who also happened to be his legal advisor. While we were talking, he casually mentioned that four months ago, my father had visited him to transfer ownership of a house — in Meera Aunty’s name. He had legally signed away all rights to that property. The house was hers entirely.

This was one month before he drove her out.

I sat in silence for a long time, stunned. I never realized just how deeply my father had cared — or how carefully he had planned.

Turns out, he wasn’t afraid that Maa Meera would compete with us over property. He was afraid we would hurt the woman who had silently, selflessly loved and cared for us all these years.

I went to visit her. Her new home was modest, but the front yard was bright, and there was sunlight spilling in. When she opened the door, she smiled gently — still the same graceful figure I remembered.

After talking with her, I understood something even more clearly — my father was right to fear the worst. Because had my two brothers known the truth back then… Maa Meera would never have found peace.