I faked a stomach ache to skip school. By 11:18 a.m., I was hiding behind my bedroom door, watching my own aunt plant a stolen diamond bracelet inside my mother’s office bag. She whispered, “Today, her saint act will end.” By evening, a police van stopped outside our building. And my mother was still walking home with no idea her sister had sold her to prison.

My sister will be dragged out in handcuffs in front of her daughter, my aunt whispered on the phone. And she won’t even know who destroyed her. I stopped breathing behind the bedroom door. I was thirteen. That morning, I had done one stupid thing. I told my mother my stomach hurt so I could miss school. I had not studied for my history test. I thought staying home alone would be my punishment. I did not know that one lie would save my mother’s life.

My mother, Meera Sharma, worked as a cashier at a big department store inside Pacific Mall, Subhash Nagar. She left before sunrise. She came back with swollen feet. And still, the first thing she always asked was, Kavya, did you eat? Before leaving that morning, she kept dal-rice on the stove, filled a steel bottle with nimbu pani, and touched my forehead. Don’t open the door for anyone, she said.

Not even Maasi? She paused. Only for one second. Then she said, Not even her.

I should have remembered that. But after she left, I watched TV under a blanket and fell asleep on the sofa. A sound woke me. Keys. At first, I thought Mummy had forgotten her tiffin. But Mummy never returned before night. I pulled the blanket up to my nose and pretended to sleep. The door opened slowly. My aunt Poonam came in. But not the Poonam Maasi who usually came wearing bright lipstick, glass bangles, and a fake-sweet voice. This Poonam wore a grey hoodie. Sunglasses. Plastic gloves. She moved like a thief inside her own sister’s house.

My heart started beating so loudly I thought she would hear it. She walked straight to the hook near the door. That was where Mummy kept her black office bag. Poonam opened her handbag and took out a small packet wrapped in silver foil. Inside it, something flashed. Gold. Diamonds. Green stones. She pushed it deep into Mummy’s bag and zipped it shut. Then she called someone. It’s done, she whispered. Send them when Meera comes home. Tell police to check her bag first. This time, she won’t escape.

My fingers went cold. Poonam smiled. Not like my aunt. Like someone watching a house catch fire. Finally, she said, madam’s saint drama will be finished.

When she left, I waited until the stairs went quiet. Then I ran to the door and locked it. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely open Mummy’s bag. Inside, under her lunch cloth and old purse, I found the packet. A bracelet. White gold. Green emerald stones. Heavy. Too expensive to belong in our two-room flat. Then I remembered the news from the night before. A famous jewellery store in South Extension had been robbed during a private wedding exhibition. The owner had cried on TV because one family bracelet, worth crores, was missing. I searched it on my phone. The photo opened. Same bracelet. Same green stones. Same twisted gold pattern.

My mother was not just going to lose her job. They were going to call her a thief. They were going to arrest her. And the person who planted it was her own sister. I wanted to call Mummy. But what would I say? Mummy, Maasi came in with gloves and put stolen jewellery in your bag? It sounded crazy even inside my own head.

Then I remembered Uncle Harish from the flat opposite ours. After two chain-snatching cases in the lane, he had installed a small CCTV camera outside his door. It pointed straight at our entrance. I ran across the corridor and knocked like mad. He opened the door in his white baniyan, holding his newspaper.

What happened, beta?

I need to see your CCTV. Now. Please.

His face changed when he saw mine. He did not ask more. He opened the footage. There she was. Poonam Maasi. 11:18 a.m. Grey hoodie. Gloves. Using her spare key. Entering our house. Leaving seven minutes later with a smile that made even Uncle Harish whisper, Hai Ram.

I did not cry. I did not scream. I only understood one thing. That evening, when Mummy returned tired from work, a trap would be waiting inside her own bag.

Uncle Harish saved the footage on a pen drive. Call your mother, he said.

I tried. Her phone was switched off. At 6:32 p.m., I heard footsteps on the stairs. Not Mummy’s. Heavy boots. Men’s voices. Then a police van stopped below our building. I looked through the window and saw two officers step out. Behind them stood Poonam Maasi. She was crying loudly. Too loudly.

My sister has always been jealous of me, she told the police. Please search her bag. You will understand everything.

My throat closed. Then I saw Mummy turning into the lane, holding her tiffin bag, walking slowly because her feet hurt. She saw the police. She saw Poonam. She saw me standing at the window. And before I could shout, one officer reached for her black office bag. But the bracelet was no longer inside it. Because I had moved it. And when Poonam Maasi realized where I had hidden it, her crying stopped so suddenly that even the police turned to look at her…