CHAPTER 23
ROXANNE
For two months, I clung to the hope that this marriage might work.
I poured myself into it—like water into cracked glass, knowing it would cut me when it finally shattered. I kept hoping it would hold. But it kept leaking and I kept shrinking.
I gave it my all. God knows I tried. I really tried. But the silence returned. The distance. The absence of touch and truth.
The same cycle repeated.
We went on two dates—both planned by me. They felt like duties, not memories in the making—hollow evenings I’d forget as soon as they ended.
He was barely present. I spoke. He nodded. We tried to be intimate. I lit candles, wore the lingerie he once liked. I kissed him slowly, hoping he’d remember how to want me—how to see me. How to reach for me like I was still the woman he chose. But his eyes were elsewhere.
I felt like a stranger in my own skin—like desire had moved out and left behind an empty house. All he seemed to care about was finishing and turning away, muttering something about a tiring day, or not being in the right headspace—or the worst:
What if Kyra wakes up?
I couldn’t take it anymore. Something inside me finally cracked and stopped hoping and gave way. The counselling. The endless advice—from friends, family, therapists.
The endless loop of try harder, be patient, he’s a good man.
I was exhausted from resuscitating something that had long stopped breathing. So, I sat Vihaan down. No drama. No shouting. Just truth.
“I’m tired, Vihaan,” I said, my voice steady but frayed.
“Tired in my bones. Tired in my soul—tired in ways sleep couldn’t fix. Tired of pretending this ache is love. I’m tired of pretending we’re okay. Tired of carrying this alone. Tired of feeling like a guest in my own life.”
He didn’t interrupt. I continued.
“I’ve begged for connection for conversation, for touch. I’ve begged to be seen—not as a mother, not as a wife, but as a woman—with needs, with fire, with fragility. And every time I reached out, you turned away. I’ve felt more alone in this marriage than I ever did before it.”
He looked down, his fingers clenched.
“I know you’re not a bad man. You’ve provided, you’ve supported me in ways that matter. But you’ve also made me feel small—so small my own voice started sounding unfamiliar. Like I’m always too much, and somehow still never enough.”
His eyes welled up, but I didn’t stop.
“I can’t do this anymore. Not for Kyra. Not for your family. Not for the version of me that keeps shrinking to fit into this life.
“I’ve lost myself to this marriage. I don’t want my life to be the example Kyra learns from.” I sighed. “She’s watching me shrink, one compromise at a time. And one day, she’ll shrink too—because I showed her how. Seeing me kill my happiness, she’ll do the same. And by then, it’ll be too late.”
He didn’t argue. He just nodded. And that silence said everything. It sounded like acceptance and defeat.
Later that week, his sister called. She didn’t ask how I was.
She didn’t ask what I needed. Just blame, dressed up as a concern.
She didn’t hold back. She started by trying to convince me to make things work.
But she didn’t understand what it meant to put your feelings above your husband’s—because she never had to.
For her, everything her husband did was right. She followed without question.
“You’ve ruined him,” she spat over the phone. “He was fine before you came along. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger. You always have. If it weren’t for you, he’d be happily married—far from your drama.”
I didn’t respond, just listened. Endured the sting. Because arguing with someone who’s never questioned her own silence is a losing game.
I let her words settle like ash on my skin and didn’t brush them off because I knew they weren’t mine to carry.
That evening, I sat on the terrace with my mother. She lived in the building next door—close enough to help with Kyra, far enough to give me space. She’d always liked Vihaan. Respected him. Which made this harder.
She handed me a cup of tea, her eyes searching mine.
“What’s wrong, Roxanne? Why the sudden change of heart? she asked gently. “I thought you two loved each other.”
I stared out at the garden below, the frangipani tree swaying in the breeze.
“It’s not that easy to explain,” I said. “It’s not one thing, Ma. It’s everything.”
She waited. She always waited. That was her way—quiet patience, even when the truth was heavy.
“I feel like I’ve been fading slowly. Quietly. For years.”
“A woman generally disappears under the shadow of a man post-marriage.” Her voice was calm.
But her eyes held the weight of every year she’d spent invisible. And I saw myself in her—not just as her daughter, but as the echo of a life she once lived.
“That is how it is, responsibility after responsibility. First a good girl, then a good wife, then a good mother. She has to endure it all—or be branded a failure.”
Her words stung. But also struck a chord.
“Is there someone else?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. My breath caught, betraying more than my silence ever could. I just looked out at the horizon, thinking of Marcello. His eyes. His silence. The way he held me like I was something sacred. A memory I couldn’t speak aloud. Because some truths are too tender to survive the light.
My mother sighed.
“Why don’t you try harder? Talk it out.”
“It’s not like I didn’t try, Ma. I thought you, of all people, would understand. I married for love. But that now feels far from it. It feels like a chore.”
“Love changes after marriage, Rox. Especially after a child.”
“I know. But I shouldn’t be begging for it.” I replied.
“Vihaan loves you. I’ve seen it. We all have. The way he provides for the family. The way he shows up. That’s rare.”
How do I explain it?
That what we had was companionship, not connection. A home, not a heartbeat. How do I tell her that the man I once chose, the man I once loved, is now the reason I feel hollow?
She spoke, “It’s hard, you know. Raising a child alone. Even with me here. When your father passed, you were ten. I never remarried. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I was afraid—afraid a new man wouldn’t accept you. So, I chose you. And I’d do it again.”
I reached for her hand, squeezing it.
“People look down on you, like you’re the one at fault.
You have to endure it alone. I don’t want you to carry what I carried.
To walk the same lonely road. Being answerable at every turn in life.
Going through life by yourself. Balancing work and motherhood—it’s hard.
A lot more sacrifices have to be made when you’re alone. ”
A knot tightened in my chest; I knew she was speaking from scars.
Just then, Vihaan stepped onto the terrace. He looked tired. But calm—the kind of calm people wear after surrendering.
“She’s not alone,” he said. “I’ll co-parent. We’ll live under one roof for now. We’ve been roommates for years anyway. Let’s stop pretending. Let’s make it official.”
His words loosened something inside me—something I’d kept clenched for years.
My mother looked at him, then at me.
“I love Kyra,” he continued.
“And I love you, in my own way. I’ll still show up. I’ll still provide—whenever you need me. I’m still her father. That won’t change.”
I stood up and hugged him, holding him tight and cried. Not out of grief. But out of release. Because I was finally letting go of the version of me that kept trying.
And she deserved to be mourned—the version of me who kept stitching a torn fabric alone.
For the first time, we were finally telling the truth. Finally agreeing on the same thing. My mother patted my shoulder, understanding, and quietly left us alone.
Vihaan wiped my tears and held my face in his hands.
“I’ll still fight for you, Roxy,” he said softly.
He leaned in and kissed my forehead.
A gesture of closure. Of kindness. Of letting go. Of two people ending softly instead of breaking hard.
We sat down together, side by side, and began to figure out how to live with this new truth. Not as husband and wife. But as co-parents. As two people who once tried, and now chose peace.
Our new normal. Imperfect. Unfinished, but finally honest. We weren’t whole. But we weren’t silently breaking anymore. And maybe that was its own kind of healing.