This was transactional regard. Meera’s internal ledger never closed. Debit: I drove 45 minutes. Debit: I paid for cataract surgery. Credit: You are boring me. Balance: I’m entitled to be rude. “Okay,” her mother said softly. “I’ll pack it for Rahul. Maybe he will eat.” “Fine.” Meera stood up. A phantom vibration in her pocket. “I have to go. The maid is coming at 12.” “Already?” Her mother’s face fell—micro-heartbreak Meera didn’t have bandwidth to process. “But you just came. I haven’t told you about—” “Ma, please,” Meera cut her off. “Don’t start the guilt trip. I’m doing everything I can. Do you know how many women my age visit their parents every week? None. You should be happy I’m here.” She weaponized her presence—like a subscription renewal: be grateful I showed up. Her mother walked her to the door. She reached out—maybe to touch Meera’s arm, maybe to fix a strand of hair. Meera flinched away, checking her watch. “Be careful with the door,” Meera ordered. “Lock it properly. Crime rate is up.”