Page 6 of The Defiant Wife

And yet somehow they're still kind. Still hopeful. Still capable of loving with their whole hearts. I honestly don't know how. Because if life had treated me the way it treated some of them, I would've burned cities down.

Probably.

Maybe.

Fine.

Definitely.

A soft knock sounds against my office door. I glance down at the paperwork spread across my desk.

Funding reports.

Volunteer schedules.

Supply requests.

My daily companions. For a brief moment my gaze lands on a photograph tucked beside my laptop. The edges are worn from being handled too often. It's a picture taken nearly three years ago.

The first day this building officially opened.

The children are crowded around me, half of them smiling, half of them making ridiculous faces.

Rani is missing a front tooth, her expression serious. Jay has chocolate all over his shirt. Laila is holding a stuffed rabbit bigger than her head.

I remember that day vividly.

The excitement. The fear. The certainty that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Somehow it worked anyway. A small smile pulls at my lips.

Family doesn't always look the way people expect. Sometimes family is messy. Sometimes family steals your fries. Sometimes family draws doodles on official paperwork. And sometimes a family consists of twenty-seven children who somehow convinced you they own your heart.

A familiar ache settles in my chest.

The kind that arrives whenever I think too much about where I came from.

Or rather—where I didn't. I don't remember my biological parents. I don't remember being left behind. I do remember the orphanage but most of my memories start after the Goyals adopted me.

And adopted is a generous word for what happened. Acquired might be more accurate. Purchased for public relations purposes. A charitable headline. A photo opportunity. A feel-good newspaper article. Look at this wealthy couple changing a little girl's life.

How inspiring. How generous. How kind.

The irony is that despite everything, I am grateful. Because regardless of why they took me home, how they treated me. I still got a bedroom. An education. Opportunities. And eventually this NGO.

There are children who never receive even that much. So no. I don't spend my life feeling sorry for myself.

There's no point. But there are moments. Small moments. Moments where I wonder what it would feel like to be wanted.

Not displayed.

Not tolerated.

Wanted.

I shake my head before my mind can go anywhere dangerous. "Come in."

The door opens and Manisha appears. Our counselor. My best friend. The only person in this building capable of keeping me remotely sane. Her expression immediately tells me something is wrong. Or annoying.

Usually annoying. "What happened?" I ask.