I remembered folding it into the sweater because I thought sweaters knew where their makers lived.
I covered my mouth.
Kaveri made a wounded sound and reached for the paper, then stopped herself.
Papa placed it in her hands.
“I am sorry,” he said.
For the first time, my father folded his hands before her.
Not dramatically.
Not for performance.
Like a man finally standing before the person he had wronged.
“Kaveri, I am sorry.”
She stared at him, tears falling onto the note.
“You should have asked the child,” she whispered. “Children know who loves them.”
Papa closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
I felt anger rise again, hot and protective.
“Why come today?”
He looked at me.
“Because Vasudha died last month.”
The name landed like a stone.
“She left papers. Letters. Old accounts. I found payments she had taken from my bank, claiming household staff expenses after Kaveri left. She had been paying herself with money I thought went to caretakers.”
Kaveri looked confused.
Papa’s voice turned bitter.
“She removed you, then hired agency workers for half your salary and pocketed the rest.”
I almost laughed at the ugliness of it.
So simple.
So ordinary.
A woman had not only stolen love from a child.
She had made profit from the vacancy.
“But that does not explain the sweater,” I said.
Papa nodded.
“There was a letter in Vasudha’s trunk. From Kaveri.”
Kaveri froze.
“My letter?”
He looked at her.
“You wrote to me?”
She nodded slowly.
“After I was threatened. I wrote one last time. I gave it to your office guard.”
“I never received it.”
“She did,” I said.
Papa handed me another page.
The handwriting was careful, uneven, written by someone unused to long letters but determined to finish.
Sir,
I did not leave for money. I did not speak badly of madam. I raised Kavya like my own because your wife asked me in the hospital: “If I go, don’t let my child become lonely in her own house.”
I am not asking to come back if you do not want. But please tell Kavya I did not leave without love. Tell her to eat. Tell her not to fear fever. Tell her I have her red sweater in my eyes always.
Your servant,
Kaveri
Your servant.
I hated those words.
I hated that she had written them.
I hated that the world had made her believe love needed to sign itself as servitude.
My father’s voice broke.
“I found this two weeks ago. I looked for her. It took time. The agency record led here.” He looked around the boardroom. “When I reached downstairs, they said she was cleaning on the thirty-first floor.”
Kaveri pressed the letter to her chest.
