“My sister’s just a gate guard—who’d want her?” Jeemah sneered, swirling her champagne.
The laughter hit like a slap. Even my mother giggled into her glass and added,
“She’s the family’s shame. She doesn’t do anything.”
My sister, Zareen, just stood there near the punch bowl, silent. In uniform—tight bun, straight spine, expression like stone.
I saw her blink hard, once.
The groom, Major Nayan—fresh off deployment, medals glinting—had been chatting with the uncles until that moment. He suddenly stood, eyes scanning the room like he was checking a battlefield. Then he turned toward Zareen and said, calm but loud enough to slice the music:
“Actually, she’s my—”
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