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Third person’s pov!

Remya brought the car to a gentle stop in front of the grand iron gates. The name ACHARYA gleamed in gold on the gate’s stone pillar, elegant and imposing.

“We are here,” she said quietly, glancing at Mahima beside her.

Mahima nodded, clutching her daughter a little closer. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the door and stepped out, the early morning breeze catching the edge of her soft hair. Five-month-old Mannat was wide awake in her arms, her curious eyes scanning the new surroundings.

Remya opened the gate, and they stepped inside.

The garden was beautifully kept—roses, jasmine, and marigolds in bloom, bordered by neat hedges and a stone pathway that curved toward the front door. Mannat gurgled in delight, her chubby little hands reaching out as they passed a row of yellow daisies swaying in the breeze.

“No, baby,” Mahima murmured with a tender smile, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s soft, dimpled hand. 

They reached the porch, and Remya rang the doorbell. The quiet chime echoed faintly inside.

It was just past eight in the morning—exactly as Aryan had asked. He needed to leave for his hospital shift soon, but wanted to meet the new cook before that.

A few seconds later, the door swung open.

And there he stood—Dr. Aryan Acharya. Dressed in a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His eyes, tired yet sharp, immediately dropped to the tiny figure in Mahima’s arms.

The baby.

His breath caught, ever so slightly.

Big brown eyes. Flushed cheeks. A soft coo escaped her lips as she stared up at him, entirely unafraid.

She was… adorable. Unreasonably so.

Aryan’s gaze flicked up to Mahima—her expression calm, yet guarded. She looked nothing like the image he had built in his mind when told a single mother would be joining with her child. He had expected an older woman than this with an older child.

Something about the way she held her baby—protective, grounded—made him pause.

Remya broke the silence.

“Dr. Aryan, this is Mahima… and her daughter, Mannat.”

Aryan cleared his throat, stepping aside.

“Come in.”

No matter how hard he tried, Aryan couldn’t take his eyes off the baby. She was staring right at him—bright-eyed, curious, and impossibly adorable. Her soft gurgles filled the quiet room, as though she was trying to talk to him.

A slow, unguarded smile tugged at Aryan’s lips—his first real smile in what felt like years.

“Please… have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the living room.

Remya and Mahima settled onto the couch. Mahima held Mannat a little closer, her heart pounding in her chest. Everything felt new. Unfamiliar. She had never worked a day outside her home, and had barely stepped out alone before her divorce. And now, she was in a stranger’s house—about to live and work here.

A tight knot of anxiety twisted inside her, but when her eyes dropped to her baby’s tiny face, she felt a fresh surge of strength.

For Mannat.

She had left behind the life of silence and submission. She wasn’t the same Mahima anymore. She was a mother now—and a mother couldn’t afford to be timid.

“I am Dr. Aryan Acharya,” Aryan introduced himself, his voice calm and professional. “Neuro surgeon at Sanjeevini Medical College.”

“Mahima, sir,” she replied, her voice soft but steady.

Aryan nodded. 

“Your primary responsibility will be cooking—three meals a day, and light snacks in the evening. My mother has high blood pressure, so I will provide dietary instructions. You will need to follow them strictly. Another lady comes for cleaning and washing. You don’t have to worry about all that.”

Mahima nodded quickly, absorbing every word.

“The salary is thirty thousand a month. Food and accommodation included. You can take two days off per month. Cleanliness is extremely important. My mother’s very particular about hygiene—and under no circumstance should she be cooking in the kitchen.”

His tone turned firm at the last sentence. Mahima caught the subtle warning behind it.

Just then, Mannat made another cheerful noise. Aryan glanced at her and, once again, smiled instinctively. Her gaze hadn’t left him.

Before Mahima could respond, a voice called out from the kitchen.

“Aryan, who is it?”

Aryan’s eyes widened in mild panic. 

“When did she get into the kitchen?” He muttered under his breath and hurried inside.

He found his mother, Mythily, flipping dosas on the tawa, her face glowing with early-morning determination.

“Maa!” He groaned. “I already ordered breakfast online!”

“This is the third time in two days. You are a doctor, Aryan. Do I need to tell you how unhealthy that is?” She shot him a glare.

“Maa, please. This is the last time. I have hired a new cook—she is here. She will be handling meals from now on.”

“A cook?” Mythily stiffened.

“Let’s just meet her first, please?” Aryan gave her a pleading look. 

With a huff, Mythily wiped her hands on the edge of her saree and followed him to the living room.

She froze in her tracks.

On the couch sat a very young woman—beautiful. In her arms was a baby, clutching the edge of her mother’s saree and babbling happily.

This is the cook? This was not what Mythily had envisioned.

“Maa, this is Mahima. And that’s her daughter,” Aryan introduced, watching his mother’s reaction closely.

Both Remya and Mahima rose politely as Mythily approached.

But instead of questioning them, Mythily’s face softened just a little.

“Sit… sit,” she said, motioning toward the couch opposite her. Her gaze lingered on the baby girl, who gave her a gummy smile in return.

Something about the child’s innocence—and the mother’s quiet presence—made Mythily pause.

Just then, Aryan’s phone rang. With a murmured apology, he stepped away to take the call.

Mythily shifted her attention back to the young woman and the baby nestled in her arms.

“What’s the baby’s name?” She asked gently, her voice softening.

“Mannat,” Mahima replied, a touch of pride in her tone.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful baby,” Mythily smiled, reaching out and making a small gesture to ward off evil eyes. Mahima’s eyes lit up at the gesture.

“How old is she?” Mythily asked, her gaze still fixed on the baby.

“Five months,” Mahima replied.

As if on cue, baby Mannat began to fuss. Her cheerful babbles turned into soft whimpers as she wriggled in her mother’s arms, nuzzling against Mahima’s chest and patting her bosom with her tiny hand.

Mahima instantly recognized the signal. Mannat was hungry—again. She had fed her just before leaving Remya’s place, but clearly, her little one was ready for another round.

“Oh, she is hungry,” Mythily said knowingly, a trace of amusement in her tone.

Mahima nodded, a little flustered.

“That’s the guest room,” Mythily pointed toward a nearby door. “You can feed her there. Take your time.”

“Thank you,” Mahima said sincerely, quickly rising and walking to the room with Mannat in her arms.

The door closed softly behind her.

Mythily’s eyes lingered on the door for a moment, then she turned to Remya. “If you don’t mind me asking… Mahima looks very young. Why is she willing to take up a live-in job?”

Remya hesitated for a second, then answered honestly, “Mahima is a single mother, Ma’am. She got divorced a month ago.”

Mythily’s breath caught.

Divorced? So young...

The word struck a chord deep in her heart. Her thoughts immediately drifted to Aryan—her son, her pride—and the long, lonely years he had buried himself in solitude after his own heartbreaking life. Pain prickled behind her ribs.

“I see…” she murmured.

“I brought her here because, honestly, we had no other choice. But also, Ma’am… she needed this too. Mahima was born into a well off family, married into one too. But life didn’t go easy on her.” Remya leaned in a little. 

Mythily listened in silence, her heart growing heavier.

“Her parents turned her away after the divorce,” Remya added quietly. “She had nowhere to go. No job experience. Just a baby to care for. She didn’t want to sit and cry. She chose to work.”

Mythily swallowed the lump in her throat. A young mother abandoned by her own family. Life could be so unforgiving.

“I hadn’t meant to share her whole story, Ma’am,” Remya admitted, lowering her voice. “But Doctor Aryan seemed a bit… strict. He warned that he never wants to see his mother in the kitchen again. The way he said it… it felt like he wouldn’t hesitate to fire anyone over the smallest mistake.”

“Don’t worry. Mahima will be safe here.” Mythily sighed, her gaze softening. 

Just then, Aryan returned from his call, holding a paper bag in one hand. Mythily’s eyes immediately narrowed—she recognized the packaging. Outside food. She shot her son a look of disapproval that needed no words.

“Where is she?” Aryan frowned, scanning the living room.

“She is feeding the baby,” Mythily replied, nodding toward the guest room.

He nodded silently.

Without another word, Mythily turned and headed straight for the kitchen again. Aryan followed her, of course.

“For heaven’s sake, stop chasing me like I am a runaway toddler,” Mythily muttered over her shoulder, clearly annoyed.

“Toddlers are easier to reason with,” Aryan shot back dryly.

“I just went to get some juice. I forgot to offer them anything when I saw the baby.” Mythily scoffed. 

Opening the fridge, she grabbed a tetra pack and poured two glasses of juice.

By the time they returned to the living room, Mahima was stepping out of the guest room. Baby Mannat, now fed and content, cooed in her arms, her little fingers curled into her mother’s saree as she made gurgling noises again.

Aryan’s eyes flicked to the baby, then back to Mahima.

“Well,” he said, setting the food bag aside, “if everything’s clear, you can start today. That room—” he nodded to the one she had just emerged from, “—will be yours.”

Mahima blinked at him, stunned. The room was spacious, well-lit, and clearly meant for guests—not staff.

He noticed the flicker of disbelief in her eyes but said nothing. There were no servant quarters in the house, and he wasn’t about to make her and a baby sleep in a store room. She was young and had a child—she deserved privacy, at the very least.

“Anything else, sir?” Remya asked, breaking the silence.

“No, that’s all. I need to head to the hospital,” Aryan said, grabbing his bag.

Remya leaned in to give Mahima a reassuring pat and kissed baby Mannat’s cheek. 

“You will be fine here,” she whispered hopefully, before turning to leave.

As the front door closed behind her, Mahima stood in the middle of the living room, holding her baby close. Her heart thudded in her chest.

This was it.

A new house. A new life. A new beginning—for both her and Mannat.

She drew in a shaky breath, cradled her baby tighter, and silently promised herself she wouldn’t look back.

A/N

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