Ayaan p.o.v...
The moment I stepped upstairs, a soft cooing sound drifted through the hallway—gentle, gurgling, like tiny bubbles of joy. It was coming from my room.
I quickened my pace, instinctively clutching the baby formula bottle a little tighter, and nudged the door open with my shoulder.
And there she was.
My heart clenched in the most indescribable way.
A scene I'd dreamed about—without even realizing it—was playing out right in front of me.
My mom sat cross-legged on the floor, her saree tucked neatly around her legs, a soft smile lighting up her entire face. In front of her, on a colorful baby mat, lay her—my daughter. My tiny miracle.
Mom gently massaged her with warm oil, her palms slow and careful, circling over her tiny legs, arms, belly. The baby wriggled with delight, little fists flailing in the air as she babbled nonsense sounds that somehow felt like the most important conversation in the world.
My mother was talking back—cooing, laughing softly, and pausing every now and then to press a kiss to the baby's soft belly, making her giggle.
God, I'd never seen anything more beautiful.
My mother was talking back—her voice a soft melody, laced with that special kind of love only grandmothers possess.
"Oh ho, look at those chubby little legs," she cooed, gently patting them with oil-slicked hands. "Are you trying to kick Daadi away, hmm? Are you training for the Olympics already?"
The baby squealed in response, tiny legs flailing like she was indeed preparing for a gold medal. My mother giggled and leaned in, placing a loud, smacking kiss on her belly.
"Plop! Got your tummy!" she said playfully, and the baby let out a bubbly laugh, her fists waving in the air in pure delight.
"You're going to break so many hearts with that smile, aren't you?" she continued, gently massaging her tiny arms now. "But no dating until you're fifty, okay? Daadi's orders."
She paused to nuzzle the baby's cheek, her nose brushing the soft skin. "Who's my little laddoo? You are! You're Daadi's gudiya, na?"
The baby made a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a giggle, like she was trying to answer. My mother gasped dramatically.
"What did you say? Did you just say 'Daadi'? Oh my goodness, you're a genius! Someone call the news!"
She laughed at her own joke, and so did the baby—as if she understood everything.
Watching them like that—so natural, so joyful—it didn't just make my heart clench. It wrapped around me like a warm blanket on a cold day.
My throat tightened, emotion catching me off guard.
I stood there for a moment—still, silent—just watching. Letting the warmth of that moment wrap itself around the cold, tired edges of my day.
Mom looked up and noticed me, her eyes softening even more.
"She was waiting for you, you know," she said gently, motioning toward the baby, who kicked her legs like she understood.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and finally moved, walking over to them, still holding the baby formula.
"I think I was waiting for this," I murmured, lowering myself beside them. My eyes never left the tiny bundle of joy on the mat, her eyes sparkling as if the whole world was a game.
The way she looked at my mother... the way she trusted her completely, like she belonged there—safe, loved, protected—it hit me harder than I could express.
I reached out and brushed her cheeks. "Hey" I whispered. She gurgled back as if saying,
Took you long enough, Dad.
Mom chuckled softly. "She loves the oil massage. Started smiling the moment I warmed it up."
"Of course she does," I said, looking at both of them with something dangerously close to awe.
And in that small, quiet moment, surrounded by innocence and love, something inside me shifted—something that had been stuck for too long.
This... this was home.
Just then, I heard a soft yawn from my daughter, her little face scrunching up in sleepy confusion. My mother smiled, glancing at me as she gently moved her hands across my daughter's soft skin.
"Ayaan," she said, her voice laced with warmth, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I looked up, watching as my mother lovingly adjusted my daughter in her arms. "Ready her milk. I think it's time for her to sleep." My mother's tone was so tender as she glanced at the baby, who now had her eyes closed, already drifting into the world of dreams.
I chuckled softly and looked at the bottle of milk in my hand, the faint warmth of it spreading through my fingers. "It's perfect," I said, a hint of relief in my voice as I tested the temperature one last time. My daughter's need for comfort was all-consuming, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to provide that for her.
My mom nodded approvingly as she carefully dressed my daughter in a soft onesie, wrapping her snugly in a blanket, the fabric brushing against her delicate skin. She cradled the baby against her chest, moving fluidly as if she had done this a thousand times before.
Then, my mind snapped back to reality. The calmness of the moment didn't erase the thoughts that had been eating away at me. "Mummy," I said, clearing my throat, "Sanya is coming today."
My mother paused, looking up at me, her eyes filled with curiosity. "Oh? Did she call you?" Her smile was kind, but there was something unreadable in her gaze. I could sense that she had noticed the change in me. The subtle shift in my demeanor when I mentioned Sanya's name.
"No," I replied, my voice quieter now. "I called her. I wanted to talk about something."
My mother's eyes softened, a knowing look passing between us. She smiled as if she understood. "I'm glad you two are still so close together." She said, her voice warm, yet there was something about it that made me uneasy. I turned my gaze away, not wanting her to see the conflicted emotions in my eyes.
We weren't close anymore. Not the way we used to be. The weight of the silence between us had only grown over time. The walls I had built to protect myself were as much about her as they were about me.
Before I could retreat further into my own thoughts, my mother looked at me intently, her expression shifting, as if she was trying to read something in me that I hadn't quite figured out myself.
"What do you think about her?"
My mother's voice was soft, but it carried weight. It wasn't just a casual question. There was something in her tone—a gentle curiosity, laced with concern. She had always known how to read me, even when I thought I was being unreadable.
I paused, my fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion.
"Who? Me? I don't think anything about her," I replied a little too quickly, my eyes suddenly very focused on the floor—as if the carpet pattern had become the most fascinating thing in the world.
She let out a long sigh.
"You can't lie to me, Ayaan," she said, rocking the baby slowly in her arms, her gaze still locked on me. Her voice wasn't accusing—just tired, knowing.
I looked up at her then. Her eyes were kind, but filled with that quiet sort of sadness that only a mother could feel when her child is in pain.
"What exactly happened between you two?" she asked. "We've all seen it... the distance, the silence. You two used to be inseparable."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, like it was stuffed with shards of glass. Something cold and sharp twisted behind my ribs—guilt, grief, anger, I didn't even know anymore. My voice cracked when I finally spoke, raw and trembling.
"It was me," I confessed, eyes fixed on the floor. "I created that distance... I pushed everyone away. I didn't know how to deal with it all. I was broken, Mom. Completely wrecked."
I paused, my lips trembling, breath uneven. The next words hurt more than I thought they would.
"My own child—my baby—was gone before I could even hold it."
A harsh gulp escaped me. I tried to hold it together, but the weight of everything I'd kept buried came rushing up my throat.
"I loved Rheah, I really did... so much that I forgave her silence, her coldness... even her growing distance. I thought she just needed time. But when she aborted our baby without telling me, I stayed quiet. I stayed because I loved her. I told myself I could fix it... that we could fix us."
I let out a bitter laugh, short and hollow.
"But she didn't stay. She didn't choose us. In the end, she chose him... and she left me with betrayal rotting in my chest."
I shook my head, the ache overwhelming. "That's why I kept my distance, Mom. From everyone. I couldn't handle the thought of loving someone again only to be shattered by their choices. I didn't want to be betrayed again."
I blinked rapidly, trying to will away the tears—but they spilled anyway, warm and relentless. I turned away from her, ashamed of the mess I was, of the vulnerability I hadn't meant to show. My chest heaved as I tried to swallow back the storm.
But then... she moved closer.
Her arms shifted as she carefully repositioned the baby—against her shoulder, gently patting the tiny back with one hand. With the other, she reached for me. The edge of her cotton saree, still smelling faintly of turmeric and sandalwood, brushed my cheek as she wiped the tears from my face.
Her fingers were warm, worn from years of holding and healing. They smoothed back my disheveled hair, the same way she did when I was a boy hiding in her lap after scraping my knee or losing a school race.
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead. It was tender, grounding—like home.
"My child..." she whispered, her voice breaking just a little.
There was no pity in her tone—only a fierce, unshakable love.
"You never needed to suffer alone, Ayaan," she said softly. "You've always carried too much on those shoulders of yours. I know what it is to lose a child. That ache... it doesn't just fade. But locking it away doesn't make it go either."
I closed my eyes as I held onto her—my mother, my anchor. I let myself sink into the warmth of her arms, trying to breathe, trying to steady the storm inside me. The tension in my shoulders, the ache in my chest—they didn't vanish, but wrapped in her embrace, they loosened just a little. Like the child I once was, I let myself be comforted.
She already knew everything—every ugly truth about my relationship with Rheah. I had told her it all. The love. The lies. The loss. She had been the only one I could fall apart in front of without fear of judgment. And somehow, even with her own heart broken for me, she had stayed strong. For me.
It was her who kept me sane after everything crumbled.
She pulled back slightly and gently wiped the remaining tears from my cheeks. I opened my eyes, feeling raw but lighter, like I had just surfaced from deep water.
That's when I saw her.
Sanya.
She stood at the doorway—still, silent—like she had turned to stone.
Her eyes were fixed on me, unreadable in that moment. My breath caught in my throat. A thousand thoughts crashed into my mind all at once.
How long had she been standing there?
Did she hear everything?
Did she see me crying like a mess?
Is she going to tease me?
Panic flickered through me, the instinct to guard myself returning in a flash. I abruptly broke the hug, stepping away from my mother. I quickly ran a hand through my hair, trying to erase the evidence of what she might have seen.
I didn't know why her presence unsettled me so much just then. Maybe it was because Sanya had only ever seen the version of me that wore confidence like armor. The version that flirted, teased, laughed too loud. Not this—this vulnerable, broken side I kept buried deep beneath the surface.
Our eyes met for a moment.
I couldn't tell if there was pity in hers, or something else entirely.
"Oh, Sanya—you're here," Mom said gently, her tone shifting from soft concern to warm hospitality.
I immediately dropped my gaze, breaking the intense eye contact I'd accidentally held with Sanya just seconds earlier. My heart thudded awkwardly in my chest.
Sanya stepped further into the room, her posture calm but carefully composed. She didn't glance in my direction, her eyes trained on my mother instead.
"Uh, yes, Aunty," she said, her voice polite, almost too neutral. "I just got here. The staff told me you were upstairs, so I came straight here."
She said it like it was nothing. Like she hadn't overheard a single word of my breakdown. Like she hadn't seen the tears I fought so hard to hide. But I knew better. Sanya wasn't the type to pretend out of rudeness—she pretended out of kindness. She would never intentionally eavesdrop. That wasn't her. But she had definitely heard something.
Still, she offered me the dignity of pretending otherwise.
Mom stood from the floor slowly, carefully balancing her movements so as not to wake the baby nestled beside her.
Sanya's gaze finally drifted to the little bundle of soft blankets. "How is she?" she asked, voice softer now, tinged with tenderness.
"She's doing well," Mom replied, smiling down at the sleeping infant. "I gave her an oil massage just a while ago. She's resting peacefully."
Then she turned to me, a small note of instruction in her eyes. "Feed her when she wakes up, alright?"
I nodded quietly, grateful for the change in subject, grateful that I had something—anything—to focus on other than the fact that Sanya had walked in at the worst possible moment.
"You sit here," Mom said to Sanya, already halfway to the door. "I'll bring you something to eat."
Sanya raised her hands in protest. "No, no, Aunty. I just ate before coming. Really, no need to bother."
But Mom gave her that look—the no-nonsense glare that had silenced my tantrums since I was five.
Sanya laughed softly, raising her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay! I won't argue with you."
My lips twitched despite myself. It was such a simple moment, but in the midst of my emotional wreckage, their easy banter brought a strange, fleeting comfort.
Still, the question lingered heavy in the air between me and Sanya.
Did she hear everything? Did it change the way she saw me?
And maybe even more unsettling—why did I care so much?