Epilogue
Armaan
Seven days. It took seven agonizing days before the doctors finally cleared our daughter to leave the NICU and come home with us.
Seven days of watching her through the glass, of sanitizing my hands obsessively before being allowed to touch her tiny fingers, of sitting beside Viya's hospital bed while she recovered from surgery and cried because she wanted to hold her baby.
But today, finally, we were taking her home.
I stood in the NICU, looking down at the impossibly small bundle wrapped in soft pink blankets. She was so tiny. So fragile. Her entire hand could barely wrap around one of my fingers. Her eyes were closed, her little chest rising and falling with each breath.
My daughter.
The nurse smiled at me as she carefully placed the baby in my arms.
"Support her head, Mr. Khanna. Just like that. Perfect."
I had held her before, of course. Had spent hours in the NICU learning how to feed her, change her, comfort her. But this felt different. This was me taking her out of the hospital. Taking responsibility for this tiny life completely.
The weight of it was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
I walked carefully to where Viya was waiting in a wheelchair. Hospital policy required she be wheeled out even though she was walking fine now. She looked up at me as I approached, and the moment her eyes landed on the baby in my arms, tears began streaming down her face.
"Come here, Ruhi," she whispered, reaching out. "Come to Maa."
We had decided on the name together. Ruhi. It meant soul, spirit. And she was the soul of our family now.
I carefully transferred our daughter into Viya's arms, and I watched my wife's face transform with pure, overwhelming love as she held our baby for the first time outside the NICU.
"She is so beautiful," Viya said, her voice breaking. "So perfect."
"She looks like you," I said, crouching down beside the wheelchair so I could look at both of them together. "Same nose. Same lips."
"She has your eyes."
"Poor thing."
Viya laughed through her tears and looked up at me.
"Are you ready for this? To take her home? To be parents?"
"Absolutely not," I admitted. "I am terrified. But we will figure it out together."
The drive home was the slowest I had ever driven in my life. Every bump in the road felt like a potential disaster. Every car that came too close made my heart race. Viya sat in the back with Ruhi's car seat, one hand resting protectively on our daughter's tiny chest the entire time.
When we finally pulled into the driveway, I saw that the entire house had been decorated. Strings of flowers hung from the entrance. Diyas were lit along the pathway. And everyone was waiting.
Dadi stood at the door with the aarti thali ready, tears already streaming down her face. Papa was beside her, looking more emotional than I had seen him in years. Aryan was there with a huge grin. Mamta ji and the rest of the staff were lined up, all trying to catch a glimpse of the baby.
And Puneet was there too.
Of course Puneet was there.
I felt a familiar surge of irritation. This man just would not leave my wife alone. Was always hanging around, always finding excuses to visit, always inserting himself into our lives.
But I looked at Viya, saw how happy she was to see her friend there, and forced myself to let it go.
For today, at least, I could tolerate his presence.
I got out of the car and carefully retrieved the car seat with Ruhi still sleeping peacefully inside. Viya walked beside me, her hand on my arm, as we approached the house.
Dadi performed the aarti, her hands shaking with emotion as she moved the thali in circles. She was crying and praying and smiling all at once.
"Welcome home, beta," she whispered to Ruhi. "Welcome to your family."
Everyone wanted to hold her. Wanted to see her. Wanted to coo over her tiny features and her delicate fingers. But Viya and I were protective, only allowing people to look for now. She was still so small, so vulnerable.
We spent the next few hours celebrating. There was food and laughter and so much joy. Dadi had arranged for a small puja to bless Ruhi. We formally announced her name to everyone gathered.
Ruhi Khanna.
Our daughter. Our miracle.
Puneet approached us at one point, looking at the baby with genuine happiness.
"She is beautiful, Viya. Congratulations to you both."
"Thank you, Puneet. It means a lot that you are here."
I forced a smile and shook his hand, even though I wanted to usher him out the door. But he was important to Viya. And anything important to Viya was important to me.
Even irritating male friends who looked at my wife with too much fondness.
Eventually, the celebration wound down. Guests began to leave. The house grew quiet. Viya and I took Ruhi upstairs to our bedroom, where a beautiful new cradle had been set up beside our bed.
Viya settled our daughter in the cradle, adjusting the soft blankets, making sure she was comfortable. Ruhi slept through it all, her tiny face peaceful.
I watched Viya watching our daughter, and my heart felt so full I thought it might burst.
We changed into comfortable clothes and finally lay down in our bed. I pulled Viya close, and she came willingly, tucking herself against my side with a contented sigh.
"I want one more," she said suddenly.
I looked down at her, surprised.
"What?"
"One more baby. A boy. To complete our family."
"Absolutely not."
She pushed herself up on her elbow to look at me.
"Why not?"
"Because I cannot go through that again, Viya. The terror of watching you in labor. The doctor saying they might have to choose between you and the baby. Sitting outside that operating room wondering if you were going to survive. I cannot do it again."
"But it will not necessarily happen like that next time. The doctors said the premature labor was just—"
"No."
My voice came out harder than I intended. I softened it and pulled her back against me.
"No more babies. I almost lost you. Do you understand that? I almost lost you, and I barely survived it. I cannot risk that again. I will not."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she pouted, and despite the seriousness of the conversation, I almost laughed at how adorable she looked.
"You can give me all your wealth, transfer all your property to my name, but you will not give me one more baby? What kind of husband are you?"
I turned to face her fully, cupping her face in my hands.
"The kind who loves his wife more than anything in the world. The kind who would rather have one child and one healthy wife than risk losing either of you. The kind who has everything he needs right here in this room."
"But Armaan—"
"No, Viya. I am not budging on this."
She slapped my chest playfully, her eyes dancing despite her pout.
"You are impossible."
"I am practical."
"You are stubborn."
"I am your husband."
The words came out possessive and final. She looked at me, and something in her expression softened.
Then she was kissing me. Soft and sweet and full of love.
When we pulled apart, I kept her close, my forehead resting against hers.
"I have everything I need," I whispered. "You and Ruhi. That is my whole world right there. I do not need anything else."
From the cradle beside our bed, we heard a soft sound. Both our heads turned to see Ruhi stirring, her little face scrunching up.
Viya started to get up, but I stopped her.
"I will get her."
I went to the cradle and carefully lifted our daughter into my arms. She settled immediately, her tiny body relaxing against my chest.
I brought her back to the bed, and the three of us lay there together. Viya on one side, Ruhi in the middle, me on the other side, my hand resting on both of them.
My family. Complete and perfect and everything I had never known I wanted.
I thought about the journey that had brought us here. The lies and deception that had started it all. The pain and betrayal. The fear of losing each other. The slow, difficult road to forgiveness and trust.
It had not been easy. Had not been simple or clean or straightforward.
But it had been worth it.
Every moment of pain had been worth it to get here. To this perfect moment with my wife and daughter safe in my arms.
I looked at Viya and found her watching me with soft eyes.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too," she whispered back. "Even when you are being stubborn about giving me a son."
I laughed quietly, careful not to wake Ruhi.
"Give it a rest, woman. We are not having any more children."
"We will see," she said with a mischievous smile.
But I knew I would not budge on this. Would not risk her. Would not risk losing the happiness we had fought so hard to build.
This was enough. More than enough.
This was everything.
My wife. My daughter. My family.
My entire world, safe and whole and here with me.
And I was never, ever letting go.