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Third person’s pov!

A week had passed quietly, each moment wrapped in the unspoken heaviness that lingered in the air.

That morning, Aryan came downstairs, dressed and ready for another long day at the hospital. His hair was still damp from the shower, his stethoscope tucked into his bag. He slid into the chair at the dining table, the scent of fresh chapattis and kurma welcoming him.

Mahima, ever efficient, placed the casserole and serving bowl on the table without a word. He helped himself—two chapattis, a generous spoonful of vegetable kurma. She moved with quiet ease, barely meeting his eyes, and once the table was set, she slipped silently into the guest room, closing the door behind her.

Aryan tried to focus on his meal, but his gaze kept drifting toward the closed door. It was becoming a reflex now. Hoping for a glimpse. Hoping to hear a faint babble or a tiny cry. Hoping for just one look at her.

Mannat.

But the door stayed shut.

Across the room, Mythily noticed. She saw the flickers in her son’s eyes, the way he kept glancing that way when he thought no one was watching. Her heart ached for him—aching with guilt and helplessness.

She walked to the guest room and gently knocked.

The door opened moments later. Mahima stood holding Mannat, who was wide awake and babbling softly, a colorful rattle clutched tight in her tiny fist. Her little legs kicked in excitement at the sight of someone new.

“Mahi, could you make me a cup of tea?” Mythily asked with a soft smile. “I have got a bit of a headache.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” Mahima replied automatically.

Mythily bit back a sigh. No matter how many times she had asked her not to use that word, Mahima always did. A quiet boundary. A silent reminder.

Mahima stepped aside and gently placed Mannat on the thick mat, propped between two pillows. The baby blinked up at her, still babbling.

“Hey,” Mythily said gently, crouching down beside her. “Give her to me. She will get bored lying on the floor all day.”

Before Mahima could respond, Mythily scooped up the baby into her arms, smiling as Mannat nestled against her shoulder.

Mahima hesitated. Something knotted in her chest.

She knew Mythily meant well. There was warmth in the way she held her daughter, no doubt. But that closeness—this growing bond between Mannat and the family—unnerved her. Mannat was just a baby now, but one day soon… she and Mahima would have to leave. And that departure would be harder if her daughter had grown used to these arms, these faces.

Still, she nodded. 

“I will bring the tea in a minute,” she murmured, her voice tight.

By then, Mythily had already walked out with the baby, her soft lullaby echoing down the hallway.

Back in the dining room, Aryan looked up as his mother entered—his eyes lighting up the moment he saw Mannat in her arms. His smile was instinctive, full of warmth that he rarely allowed himself to show.

He reached for his glass of water, trying to mask the way his heart had leapt at the sight of her.

Just a glimpse. That’s all he needed to carry through the day.

And today, he got it.

Aryan walked toward his mother, his steps light but eager, eyes flicking quickly toward the kitchen to make sure Mahima wasn’t in sight. Seeing it empty, he leaned down over baby Mannat nestled in Mythily’s arms.

“Hey, sunshine,” he whispered, his voice low and affectionate.

Mannat’s face lit up instantly at the sight of him. She let out a delighted squeal, her gummy smile spreading wide as she reached out her tiny arms toward him, silently asking to be held.

Aryan chuckled softly, brushing a kiss onto her soft curls. 

“I will be late if I pick you up, little one,” he murmured with a fond smile and gave her a playful wave before straightening up.

But the moment he turned to leave, Mannat’s smile faltered. Her lower lip quivered, her eyes filled with distress, and then came the inevitable wail—a loud, protesting cry that echoed through the hall.

“Oh dear,” Mythily murmured, gently bouncing the baby in her arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Uncle will come back soon.” She shook the rattle softly, trying to distract her.

Mahima rushed out from the kitchen, the cup of tea trembling slightly in her hand. 

“What happened?” She asked, alarmed at her daughter’s sudden cry.

“Nothing serious, Mahi,” Mythily said, her voice calm and soothing. She smiled and gently passed the still-sobbing baby back into Mahima’s arms.

The moment Mahima held her, Mannat nestled against her chest, her tiny fists burrowing inside her blouse as she sought comfort.

“She is probably hungry. Go feed her,” Mythily said kindly, watching the mother and child with a soft gaze.

Mahima nodded, her expression unreadable, and quietly turned toward the guest room, clutching Mannat tightly to her chest. As the door closed behind them, Mythily exhaled a soft sigh.

There was something about that girl that tugged at her heart.

A young mother, abandoned by her own, left to fend for herself and her baby. Mythily could see the weariness behind her silence—the same kind of quiet ache she had seen in Aryan’s eyes not too long ago. At least Aryan had them. Mahima had no one.

The sharp ping of her phone pulled her out of her thoughts. She opened WhatsApp and smiled as she saw a new photo in the family group. Atharv had sent a selfie—he was posing with attitude at the camera while seated on the plane, and next to him, Arul sat with his laptop open, brows furrowed in deep concentration.

Her smile grew. So, they boarded. If all went on time, her husband and younger son would be home by lunchtime.

A few minutes later, Mahima stepped out of the room, her hands wiping gently on her saree. Mannat sleeping on her shoulder.

“My husband and youngest son will be here by lunch,” Mythily said, turning toward her. “We will need to make a few extra dishes.”

“Of course, Ma’am. What would you like me to prepare?” Mahima asked politely.

“Mahi, how many times must I tell you? Don’t call me ‘Ma’am.’” Mythily sighed.

“I am a servant here,” Mahima replied quietly, eyes lowered. “It doesn’t feel right to call you anything else.”

“So what?” Mythily asked firmly, her voice gentle but insistent. “You are not our first staff, and none of them have ever called us Sir or Ma’am. We don’t keep those formalities in this house. It makes me uncomfortable.”

Mahima hesitated before offering, “Er… okay, aunty.”

“That’s better. Now come on, let’s get started with lunch.” Mythily broke into a warm smile. 

She reached over to coo over baby Mannat for a moment before turning toward the kitchen.

Mahima’s heart jumped in alarm. Aryan’s warning flashed in her mind—his mother should never step into the kitchen. Her grip on the saree tightened in panic.

“Aunty, please…” she said hastily, blocking the way. “Just sit in the living room and tell me what needs to be made. I will manage everything. Quickly.”

“I know what Aryan told you,” Mythily said knowingly, reading the fear in her face. “But don’t worry. I won’t overstep. I just… I am not used to sitting idle, Mahi. Cooking has always been a passion for me. Trying new recipes, plating the food, feeding my family—it gave me joy. It still does.”

“Arul used to drag me to his office half the week, worried I would waste away in the kitchen. But the truth is, cooking has always been my way to breathe. A little therapy of my own.” She chuckled softly.

She glanced toward the kitchen wistfully, then added with a small shrug, “Now, with Aryan putting his foot down, I have stepped back. But I can still help. Just chopping vegetables, that’s all.”

Mahima bit her lip. She understood. But fear was a hard thing to swallow—especially when you had a child to protect and no other place to go.

Mythily seemed to sense that too, and her voice softened even more. “We will be careful. I promise.”

As if sensing the tension, Mannat let out a soft coo in her sleep, and Mythily’s expression brightened. She looked at the baby lying on the thick cotton mat, in the dining area, with direct vision from the kitchen.

“We should get a swing for her,” she said thoughtfully, glancing toward the kitchen. “Something we can hang nearby, so she can be with us while we work. The kitchen floor isn’t ideal for her to lie on.”

Mahima didn’t respond. She simply let out a soft sigh, her gaze falling to the floor. There was nothing to say. Not when worry weighed so heavily on her chest.

Soon, they got to work in the kitchen. Mythily settled at the small wooden table, her hands moving expertly as she chopped vegetables and scraped fresh coconut. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the board blended with the sizzle from the stove, where Mahima stirred the bubbling fish curry. The aroma of tamarind and spices filled the air, mingling with the scent of marinated fish waiting to be fried and the soft steam rising from the pot of rice.

It felt… normal. Domestic. For a fleeting moment, even peaceful.

Then a soft whimper broke through the hum of the kitchen.

“I will go check on her,” Mythily offered before Mahima could even wipe her hands.

She walked into the guest room and returned with baby Mannat nestled in her arms. The little girl’s face lit up at the sight of Mythily, her tiny fingers gripping the end of her saree.

“She just needed a bit of company,” Mythily said with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to Mannat’s chubby cheek.

With the baby in her arms, she stepped out into the garden, humming a gentle lullaby under her breath. The late morning sun was mellow, casting warm dappled shadows across the lawn. She pointed at the bougainvillaea, now in full bloom, and then at the hibiscus, its deep red petals nodding in the breeze.

“See that, Mannat? You love flowers, don’t you?” She whispered as Mannat gurgled in delight, her little feet kicking happily.

Back inside, Mahima stirred the final side dish and turned off the stove. Wiping her hands on her apron, she glanced at the clock and then toward the window that overlooked the garden.

I shouldn’t let her get tired, she thought, her heart tugging with guilt. She stepped out onto the veranda, intent on taking the baby from Mythily’s arms.

Just then, the sound of a car engine rolled up the driveway.

Mahima froze.

The front gate opened, and a sleek black SUV pulled into the porch.

Mythily turned at the sound, shielding Mannat’s eyes from the sun with her palm.

“They are here,” Mythily said softly, her smile widening as she rocked the baby gently.

Mahima's heart skipped a beat, anxiety twisting in her chest.

Mythily Ma’am’s husband and younger son.

A/N

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