SHE’S MINE
SHE’S MINE
YUVAAN
She doesn't know how to swim. That one thought has been stuck in my head ever since the call came.
It plays over and over, drowning out everything else.
The voice on the phone had been rushed, shaking, one of the estate staff struggling to explain that Sara had fallen into the lake . . . and Anamika had gone in after her.
After that, I don't remember anything clearly.
I don't remember leaving the meeting halfway through.
I don't remember the drive back to the estate.
I don't know how many times I asked whether they were okay before anyone finally answered me.
All I remember is standing outside the medical room now, my heart pounding so violently it hurts to breathe.
She doesn't know how to swim. And she still jumped. She could have drowned with Sara. The thought refuses to loosen its grip on me. I force myself to remember the facts instead.
Sara is safe.
The doctor has already told me three separate times.
She's perfectly fine. A little frightened, but otherwise completely unharmed.
Within twenty minutes she'd been asking for biscuits and complaining that everyone kept fussing over her.
Children have a remarkable way of bouncing back from terror before the adults around them have even begun recovering from it.
It wasn't Sara who frightened everyone today. It was Anamika. She went under. She didn't come back up. One of the groundsmen had to dive after her and pull her to shore. She wasn't breathing properly when they laid her on the grass. She'd been unconscious for almost a full minute.
A minute.
Sixty seconds.
I've spent years negotiating billion-rupee contracts that felt shorter than those sixty seconds. I drag a hand down my face and shut my eyes. There were people there. So many people. Security guards. Ground staff. Men who knew how to swim. Men trained to handle emergencies exactly like this.
Sara wasn't alone. Someone would have reached her.
Someone would have saved her. But Anamika hadn't stopped to think about any of that.
She'd seen her daughter disappear beneath the water .
. . and she'd jumped. By the time the doctor finally allows me inside, every bit of relief I'd been holding onto has twisted itself into something else.
She's awake. Sitting against the pillows.
Pale. Her hair still damp around her temples.
There's a blanket pulled over her legs, and she's already arguing quietly with the doctor about how unnecessary overnight observation is.
The sight of her breathing—actually breathing—loosens something inside my chest.
For exactly two seconds. Then the fear crashes back so hard it comes out as anger.
"What were you thinking?" My voice is quieter than I expect, but I can hear how tightly I'm holding it together.
"You can't swim, Anamika." I take another step into the room.
"You walked into that lake knowing you couldn't swim. "
I huff, my anger only rising as she shivers a bit, “Anyone could have saved her, there were so many people—”
"No." She looks straight at me. "I walked into that lake because Sara was in it.
" There's no hesitation. No apology. No uncertainty.
"She's not your daughter." The words leave her before either of us can stop them.
"She's mine." Her breathing catches slightly.
"I will do anything to keep her safe. Anything. "
"I won't stop to think about it."
"Not ever."
The room goes completely still. Something inside me gives way. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just . . . quietly. Because she's right.
She isn't trying to hurt me. She's telling me the truth.
For seven years it has only been the two of them. Every fever. Every nightmare. Every scraped knee. Every hospital visit. Every bad day.
She never had anyone else to look toward. Of course she jumped. Of course she didn't stop to calculate who else was standing nearby. A mother doesn't count lifeguards before diving after her child.
But hearing the words out loud—She's mine—not yours—still leaves a dull ache somewhere beneath my ribs that I wasn't prepared for.
I don't say anything. I can't. Across from me, I see the exact moment she realizes how it sounded. Guilt flashes across her face almost immediately. Her shoulders fall. "Yuvaan . . . " Her voice is much softer now. I let out a slow breath.
"It's alright." I sink onto the edge of the bed because suddenly I don't trust my legs to keep holding me.
"I'm sorry." I rub a hand over my forehead.
"I shouldn't have come in here like that.
" I take a deep breath, "I was frightened.
" The last sentence comes out almost as a whisper.
"So frightened." She reaches for me without another word.
Her arms slide around my neck, pulling me toward her, and every part of me goes willingly. I hold her just as tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispers against my shoulder. "I didn't mean . . . " She stops, trying again. "For so many years . . . " Her voice trembles. " . . . it's only been us."
"Just me and Sara. I've spent so long believing I had to be the only one protecting her that..." She exhales shakily. "...my body reacted before my mind could."
"I forgot." Her fingers tighten against the back of my shirt. "I forgot she has other people now."
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are shining. "I forgot there are people who love her besides me." A tear slips free. "I forgot . . . that someone else would've gone after her too." I lift one hand and brush the tear away with my thumb.
"And you." I keep my voice gentle. "They love you too." I wait until she really looks at me. "You don't have to carry everything alone anymore. You don't have to be the only person standing between her and the world." I smile softly, "You don't have to be. Not while I'm here."
Her face crumples so quietly it breaks my heart. She leans forward and presses a lingering kiss against my cheek. "So many people have thanked me in my life," I think absently.
For speeches.
For donations.
For decisions.
None of it has ever meant as much as this one whispered thank you. "Thank you," she murmurs. I close my eyes for just a second. The fear hasn't disappeared. I don't think it will for a while.
I can still see the image my mind created the moment someone said the words lake .
. . unconscious . . . Anamika. I understand myself a little too well.
Fear has always come out wrong. It arrives as panic.
Then, once the people I love are finally safe .
. . it sharpens into anger because anger is somehow easier to survive than terror.
She caught that sharp edge today. She didn't deserve it.
I brush a damp strand of hair away from her forehead.
"You know . . . " A helpless smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite everything.
"I've been trying very hard to decide whether I should kiss you .
. . " I shake my head, " . . . or lecture you for the next ten years. "
She gives me an exhausted look. “I nearly lost my mind today."
I frown, "You walked into a lake you couldn't swim in . . . " I sigh, " . . . because someone you loved needed you."
I let out a quiet laugh that sounds suspiciously close to breaking. "I don't think I've ever been more terrified . . . "
"...or more in love with you..."
"...than I was at that moment."
She stares at me. Then, despite everything . . . she blushes. Colour creeps slowly into cheeks that had been frighteningly pale only minutes ago. She reaches over and gives my chest a weak shove. "That," she mutters, "is an absolutely ridiculous thing to tell your wife after shouting at her."
"My wife nearly drowned." I shrug lightly. "I think I'm entitled to be at least a little ridiculous."
A laugh escapes her. Small. Shaky. Wet around the edges. But it's there. The sound settles something restless inside me.
She takes one deep breath before looking toward the door. "Can you bring Sara to me?" Her voice is quiet again.
"I need to see her. I need to hold her. I know everyone keeps telling me she's alright..." She exhales weakly, "...but I need to feel it myself."
I nod immediately. "Of course."
I lean down before leaving. Press one slow kiss against her forehead.
I don't rush away. I stay there for one heartbeat longer than necessary, letting my lips rest against her skin, silently thanking every god willing to listen that she's still here for me to kiss at all.
Then I straighten, squeeze her hand once, and go to bring our little girl back to her mother.