“Swapna, we're getting a divorce.” The words weren't a roar of anger from Dhruv, but the quiet, utterly exhausted surrender of a man at his breaking point. Ten years of marriage, ultimately condensed into a light, dismissive sentence. His wife, her eyes still glued to her phone screen, merely offered him a casual smile. That smile, colder than a blade, more wounding than any silence. There were no questions, no tears, just the rustle of a pen on paper, as she neatly signed her name, as if completing nothing more than a trivial transaction. He pushed everything toward her—the house, the company shares, even their only daughter, Prisha. He only yearned for release from that suffocating indifference. But freedom, he discovered, was another kind of agony. His wife’s smile, a searing brand, was etched deep into his memory, proclaiming his utter, insignificant dispensability. Then, Prisha’s sharp voice pierced the air: “Hey! What are you doing, playing servant? Don’t you feel ashamed?” Dhruv froze, his heart tearing open. His daughter, whom he had once held so precious, now spoke to him with the disdain of one offering charity, reducing him to a “useless dad” and ordering him to carry luggage for the new man—Adith. Ten years of dedication, ten years of building, ten years of pouring his very soul into his life. Was this truly his end? To become a transparent ghost in his own home, watching his wife casually inquire if her new partner could move in, as if his feelings were less significant than a speck of dust on the table? He forced a weak smile, a lump forming in his throat, and finally nodded his agreement. But that agreement, like a spark, ignited a burning question deep within his soul: How could he ever reclaim his shattered dignity? Would he forever remain a forgotten shadow in his own story?