He would “accidentally” brush my shoulder in the cramped kitchen while my parents watched TV in the other room.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” he whispered to me once by the grill during a Fourth of July barbecue, while Ananya was inside cutting a cake. “We’re family now. Families share.”

I stopped breathing and didn’t notice for fifteen seconds. I gripped my glass of water so tightly my knuckles turned white. I said nothing. I thought this was my punishment. I thought I earned it.

For five years, I avoided them.

I missed my nephew’s second birthday.

I stopped going to Sunday dinners.

I let my parents think I was just busy with work, focused on my career, turning into the cold older sister who didn’t care about family. It was easier to let them think I was distant than to let them know I was toxic.

The only piece of evidence from that night was a heavy silver bracelet Dev left on my passenger seat.

I didn’t throw it away. I didn’t pawn it. I kept it in a small velvet box in my bottom desk drawer. It was my penance. A physical reminder of what I was capable of. Whenever I felt like complaining about my lonely life, I would open the drawer, look at the silver metal, and remind myself that I deserved exactly what I had.

Last Thanksgiving, Ananya came over to my house early to help prep the turkey. She went into my office to find a pen to write out the seating cards.

I was in the kitchen chopping onions when she walked out holding the velvet box.

“Priya,” she said. Her voice sounded strange. Flat. “Why do you have this?”

My legs died under me. The knife slipped from my hand and hit the cutting board.

I opened my mouth to confess. I was ready to let it all burn down. I was ready to finally take the punishment I deserved. I had practiced the apology in my head a thousand times.