Y/n’s POV —

The car slowed down as we turned off the main road and into the narrow path leading to the house where I had left half of my childhood behind.

My eyes instantly began to sting—not because of sadness, but something far more dangerous. Something too tender to contain.

Nostalgia.

It was everywhere. The old neem tree still stood tall near the front gate, its thick branches arching like they were waiting to embrace me. The faint scent of guava blossoms lingered in the air, mixed with the distant smell of cow dung (ah yes, welcome to the village), and the sun shimmered softly on the terracotta-tiled roof of my father’s house.

That house.

Warm. Soft. Lived-in. Painted in faded hues of yellow and happiness.

My home.

As soon as the car stopped, Aarohi and Advait burst out like two rockets.

“NANA!!!” they screamed in unison, making the birds in the nearby tree fly off in alarm.

I barely had time to open the car door when I saw him—my father.

Standing by the gate in his white kurta, arms stretched out, his eyes crinkled with a thousand emotions. Before I could even wave, the kids had already crashed into him, hugging his legs, shouting over one another.

“Nana, look! I brought mango candies!”
“Nana, I saw a buffalo!”
“Nana, where’s the swing?!”
“Nanaaaa!”

He laughed, loud and full, that rich, comforting laugh I hadn’t realized I missed so deeply.

“My bacche! My babies!” he bent down to scoop both of them up, one arm around each. “You two look taller already! Aarohi, your cheeks got fatter. And Advait—what is this? Sunglasses again?”

“It’s fashion, Nana,” Advait said seriously. “Don’t mock the drip.”

“Drip?” My father looked at me, bewildered. “What is this boy saying?”

I burst into laughter, stepping out with the passports still clutched in my hand. “Don’t ask. He’s been copying his father.”

“Well, that explains it,” came another voice.

I turned—and there he was—my younger brother, standing with one hand on his hip, the other carrying his adorable two-year-old daughter, Myra, who was currently more interested in chewing on his collar than noticing her aunt.

“Oh my god!” I laughed, walking up to them. “She got chubbier!”

“She got heavier too,” he grunted, shifting her weight. “She thinks I’m a sofa.”

“She thinks right.”

Myra finally noticed me and blinked—then her tiny face broke into a gummy smile. “Maaassiii!”

I melted. Fully.

I scooped her into my arms like I hadn’t just flown halfway across the world with two hyper kids. “How’s my jaanu? Huh? You missed me?”

She patted my face with her sticky hands and babbled something about a cow and “balloo.”

“She’s been trying to say ‘buffalo’ for two days,” my brother laughed.

“Close enough,” I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Behind me, I heard Aarohi shouting from inside the gate, “UMMAAA! Come see the swing!”

And then, “Appa said I could climb it by myself if I promised not to break my teeth!”

I sighed. “Of course he did.”

Just as I turned, another familiar voice called out from the verandah.

“You all just planning to reunite without me?”

My eyes snapped up—and there she was.

My sister.

Beautiful as ever, in a soft cotton saree, her hair in a loose braid, glass bangles tinkling as she walked toward me with that smile that had soothed a thousand of my childhood heartbreaks.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

“I missed you more,” she said, hugging me tight. “Even your drama.”

“And I missed your judgment.”

We laughed.

She pulled back to look at me properly. “God, your skin looks amazing. Still using Jungkook’s expensive moisturizers?”

“Obviously. I married for skin care, not love.”

“Liar,” she snorted. “You married because he has abs.”

I blushed like I was 16 again. “Stop.”

“Anyway,” she rolled her eyes. “Come inside. Your's room is exactly how you left it.”

“I can’t believe you kept it untouched.”

“She said it smells like you. And honestly? It does. That weird perfume you wore in college? Still lingers.”

“Hey!” I said, offended. “That perfume was iconic!”

“Iconically bad.”

We giggled like we were kids again, like nothing had changed and no years had passed.

As we all entered the house together—Papa with his arms still full of grandkids, my brother making faces at Myra, and my sister pulling me along by the hand—I felt something loosen inside me. A knot I hadn’t realized was there.

I was home.

Where time slowed down.
Where love was loud.
Where mangoes were sweeter, and laughs came easier.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like a wife, or a tired mother, or a businesswoman.

I felt like… just me.

A daughter.
A sister.
A girl who still got butterflies in her old room and planned to text her husband pictures of the mango tree and rub it in that she was eating fresh rasgullas before dinner.

Home.
God, it felt good.

The night had settled in quietly over the village, blanketing everything with a gentle breeze and that nostalgic smell of earth, trees, and distant bonfires. From the open terrace, I could see the moon hanging lazily above the mango orchard, clouds brushing past it like shy lovers.

The air here was different. Softer. Warmer. Full of memories.

I had my laptop balanced on a tiny wooden table—one we’d dragged up here years ago for stargazing. Now it served as my make-shift office, and the dim yellow bulb above me flickered every now and then, giving the whole terrace an old Hindi movie kind of vibe.

My fingers tapped away on the keyboard, the screen lighting up my face as I went through emails, sorted project files, and cursed my slow village Wi-Fi under my breath.

“Ugh, come on, load already,” I muttered, clicking the refresh button for the sixth time.

Everything else was silent—until I heard it.

Tiny screams. Followed by rapid footsteps.

Then a shriek.

Then laughter.

Then—both.

I turned my head just in time to see Aarohi and Advait burst through the terrace door like two tiny tornadoes, eyes wide, arms flailing.

“MUMMAAAA!” Aarohi screamed, clutching her stuffed bunny.

“COCKROACHES!!” Advait yelled at the same time, nearly tripping over his own feet.

I blinked. “Wait—what?!”

They both reached me in record time, talking over each other.

“There was one under Nani’s table—HUGE! Like this big!” Aarohi spread her hands dramatically.

“No! It had wings! I swear it looked at me!” Advait added, climbing onto my lap like I was a shield of safety.

I raised an eyebrow, brushing his hair back. “It looked at you?”

He nodded seriously. “Yes. With intentions.”

I laughed, trying not to shake too much so my laptop wouldn’t fall off. “And what intentions did this cockroach have, Your Highness?”

“To chase me and ruin my life!” he declared.

Aarohi grabbed my arm, wide-eyed. “Do cockroaches bite, Mumma? Like, actually bite? Will I die?”

I bit back a smile. “Okay, first of all—no, they don’t bite like that. You’re not going to die. And second, if you two keep screaming like banshees, you’ll wake up the whole village.”

“But Nani said they don’t come upstairs,” Aarohi pouted.

“Then you’re safe here, aren’t you?” I said, pulling them both closer, one on either side.

For a moment, there was peace. Just the three of us, huddled together on the old terrace in the middle of nowhere under a sleepy sky.

Then came the second storm.

“I’m sleeping with Nani tonight!” Aarohi announced proudly.

“No!” Advait snapped. “I said it first! You always steal everything!”

“I don’t!” she shouted. “You snore like Appa!”

“Take that back!”

“You take your face back!”

I sighed deeply, letting my head fall back against the old swing’s pole.

This. Was. My. Life.

I looked at both of them. “Alright. One of you sleeps with Nani tonight, the other tomorrow. Simple.”

“No!” they both shouted.

“I want tonight!” Aarohi stomped her foot.

“I’m older!” Advait puffed his chest.

“You’re older by six minutes!”

“That’s still older!”

“STOP!” I snapped, holding up my hands. “Okay. New plan. Rock, paper, scissors. Best of three.”

They looked at each other.

“Fine,” they mumbled.

I watched as they squatted down in front of me like little warriors, determined to win Nani’s bed for the night. It was the silliest war I’d ever witnessed—and yet, weirdly adorable.

After three rounds (and a suspicious tie), they both suddenly agreed, “We’ll both sleep with Nani.”

I blinked. “I suggested that ten minutes ago.”

They ignored me, already running off, shouting, “Naniiiii! We’re both sleeping with youuuu!”

I could faintly hear my mom’s laugh echo from downstairs.

I stared at the now-quiet terrace, the warm silence settling back in like nothing happened.

I looked at my laptop. Still frozen. Of course.

But somehow, none of it mattered.

I sat back, let the wind brush over my face, the smell of neem and night flowers in the air, and my heart feeling… full.

Because this was chaos.

This was motherhood.

And this was home.