•| TWENTY |•
You didn’t dare to ask your parents about the child…
or about the ex-wife. The questions had burned in your throat the entire night, scratching against your conscience, begging to be voiced — but you swallowed them every single time.
You trusted your parents blindly; you knew them, knew their hearts, knew they would never intentionally push you into something that would shatter you.
If there was something they hadn’t told you, then maybe…
maybe they had their reasons. That belief was the only thing calming the storm inside you.
Currently, you were standing in the kitchen, quietly cutting vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife hitting the wooden board filling the otherwise silent house.
Your movements were slow, mechanical — your mind wasn’t here; it was stuck on last night…
on his words… our son. Your hands paused for a fraction of a second before you forced yourself to continue chopping, as if keeping busy would stop your thoughts from spiraling.
Just then, your mother walked into the kitchen.
She stopped near the entrance for a moment, watching you silently — her eyes soft, proud — seeing her daughter working so diligently, already fitting into the role of a wife and mother she believed you would soon become. A warm smile spread across her lips.
“Samira,” she called gently, her voice pulling you out of your trance.
You looked up immediately. “Yes, Mom? Do you need something?” you asked softly, wiping your hands on your dupatta.
Instead of replying, she shook her head slowly and walked closer to you.
Before you could understand what she was doing, she held your wrist lightly and made you sit down on the chair beside the counter.
You looked at her, confused — your brows knitting slightly.
There was something different in her eyes…
something emotional, something heavy yet loving — and suddenly your heart started beating faster, unsure of what she was about to say.
“I know it’s hard… getting married to someone you don’t even know personally,” your mother began softly, her voice so gentle that it instantly melted the tension coiled inside your chest. Her palm came up to rest on your head, fingers gliding through your hair in a soothing, motherly gesture you had grown up craving whenever life felt uncertain.
“But trust me, dear… he’s a nice guy. I’ve seen it in his eyes — the way he speaks about his family, the way his mother talks about him.
He has suffered a lot… more than he shows. ”
You stayed quiet, listening, your fingers twisting the edge of your dupatta nervously as she continued.
“And listen to me carefully,” she added, her tone turning a little firm yet still warm, “don’t take back or argue unnecessarily with anyone there.
Respect them… give them the love and honor you give us.
But,” she paused, lifting your chin so your eyes met hers, “that doesn’t mean you’ll stay silent if something hurts your dignity.
Speak up when needed. Respect goes both ways. ”
A small smile formed on your lips at her words — comforted, reassured — and without thinking you leaned forward and hugged her tightly, burying your face in her shoulder like a little girl again. Her arms instantly wrapped around you, holding you close… perhaps a little tighter than usual.
“I can’t believe…” her voice cracked mid-sentence, “…it’s your last day here.”
Her words shattered the fragile composure you were holding onto. Your eyes filled instantly, tears slipping out before you could stop them. You clutched her harder, as if afraid someone would pull you away any second.
“M-Mom…”
She started sobbing softly, rubbing your back the way she used to whenever you cried as a child. “You’ll go so far from me… this house will feel empty without your voice, your mess, your laughter…”
You let out a tearful chuckle through your crying. “I’ll still come to visit you every week… you’re talking like I’m going to another country.”
Before the moment could get lighter, she suddenly pulled back a little, wiping her tears, as if remembering something important.
“A-and yeah… don’t call your husband by his name,” she said, trying to sound strict despite her teary face.
You blinked in surprise, then nodded obediently. “Okay…”
“And take care of his son,” she added gently. “He needs your love.”
Your smile faded.
You frowned slightly before pulling back fully from the hug, confusion clouding your tear-filled eyes. “You… know about it?” you asked slowly.
She didn’t answer immediately. She just looked at you… then nodded. “Yes.”
Your heart skipped. “You knew… and still you want me to marry him? Why?” Your voice wasn’t angry — just hurt, confused, searching.
She took a deep breath before cupping your face lovingly in both her hands. Her thumbs wiped the tears sitting on your cheeks.
“It’s not his fault that his wife left him… for another man,” she said softly. “He didn’t break his family… someone else did. He was left behind… with a child to raise, with responsibilities he never planned to handle alone.”
You listened silently, your heart slowly softening.
“You’re not going into a broken house, Samira,” she continued. “You’re going where you’re needed the most. And you’re lucky… because you’ll be his present, his future — his complete family. They’ll love you… more than you can imagine.”
A small, emotional chuckle escaped your lips as you nodded faintly, accepting her words — or at least trying to.
From the kitchen entrance, your father stood quietly, watching the two of you. He hadn’t interrupted once. His arms were folded, but his proud smile trembled slightly… because his eyes were glossy, heavy with unshed tears.
He cleared his throat lightly so you both looked at him. “If you both are done crying,” he said, trying to sound normal but failing miserably, “come here… let me also hug my daughter before she forgets her old father after marriage.”
You laughed through your tears and ran into his arms — and for a moment… you were no bride, no future wife, no stepmother-to-be.
Just their little girl.
---
Whereas, on the other side of the city, Kiaan was standing in front of the full-length mirror, holding two tiny sherwanis against his little body, turning left and right as if he were some important celebrity preparing for a grand event.
His brows were furrowed in deep concentration — something that always made Krish hide his smile — because the seriousness on that tiny face looked too adorable to handle.
“Dad… this one?” Kiaan lifted the cream-colored sherwani higher, tilting his head cutely.
Krish, who was sitting on the couch scrolling through some pending office mails on his phone, hummed absentmindedly, “Yes.”
Kiaan frowned immediately. He dropped the dress on the bed and walked toward his father with small but dramatic steps. “Dad… you’re not even looking at me,” he whined, his lower lip jutting out in a perfect pout that could melt anyone’s heart in seconds.
Krish sighed, locking his phone and placing it aside before opening his arms. “Okay okay… come here.”
Kiaan climbed beside him instantly, still holding one of the dresses. Krish finally looked properly at his son — messy hair, sparkling eyes, excitement practically radiating off him — and his expression softened without him realizing it.
“My son looks handsome in everything,” Krish said, pinching Kiaan’s cheek lightly.
Kiaan giggled but quickly shook his head. “But Dad… I want Mom to like it. Tell me which one is best,” he murmured more seriously this time, glancing between the two outfits like it was the biggest decision of his life.
That single word — Mom — made Krish’s fingers pause for a fraction of a second. A strange emotion flickered in his chest… unfamiliar yet warm… complicated yet gentle.
He cleared his throat softly before picking up the deep blue sherwani and holding it against Kiaan. “This one,” he said, adjusting the collar playfully.
Kiaan’s eyes lit up instantly like little stars. “Mummy will like it, right?” he asked, looking at Krish with those big doe eyes filled with hope — pure, innocent hope that didn’t know the complexities of adult hearts.
Krish smiled faintly… a real one this time.
“Of course,” he said, brushing Kiaan’s hair back lovingly. “My son is too handsome. Your mummy will surely like it.”
Kiaan broke into giggles, hugging the dress to his chest as if he couldn’t wait to show you. He ran back to the mirror, twirling clumsily, already imagining your reaction — your smile, your praise, maybe even you fixing his collar with your soft hands.
Krish watched him quietly from the couch… the smile still on his lips.
And for the first time… the word mummy coming from Kiaan’s mouth didn’t feel forced to him anymore.