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DO NOT FORGET TO PRESS THE STAR 🌟 ICON AS YOU READ.

Sahil's POV

The last time I sat in a principal's office, I was sixteen, cocky, and riding the high of adolescent rebellion. Back then, detention felt like a minor inconvenience—almost a badge of honor.

But now?

Now I'm back, thirty-two years old, not as the defiant student but as the father of two unapologetic little hurricanes who've managed to drag me back to the same arena. Except this time, the stakes are different and mortifying.

To my left sat Pratiksha, arms folded tight against her chest, one leg bouncing ever so slightly, betraying the worry brewing under her composed expression. And if eyes could speak, hers were currently drafting a monologue titled "So this is what your parenting tactics look like without me, Mr. Shrivastava?" The sarcasm, though silent, was deafening.

And honestly? She wouldn't be wrong.

I probably deserved a good chunk of the blame, not just for what happened today but for all the ways I'd failed to bridge the gaps that kept forming within this little unit I called a family.

Across from us, the twins stood like they were posing for a mugshot in the world's most defiant school-themed drama in which they're cast as two pint-sized revolutionaries who'd brought the system to its knees and were ready to negotiate the terms of surrender.

There was the principal too—a dignified woman with silver hair wound into a tight bun sitting behind her desk.

"I don't even know where to begin," The lady began at last, removing her glasses with a long, frustrated sigh. "Mr. Sahil and Miss-"

"Mrs. Shrivastava it is, Madam. We're married."

Pratiksha's head snapped toward me with such startling velocity it was like I'd cracked open the very foundation beneath us.

Her eyes locked onto mine—wide, stunned, and lit with something I hadn't seen in her gaze in so long: disbelief tangled with wonder.

She didn't blink, and for a moment, I think neither did I. Not because I feared her reaction, but because in that instant, it was as if I had reached across a chasm I had spent years digging with my own hands, but for the first time, instead of building a wall, I had built a bridge.

The air between us thickened.

It wasn't silence but a consequence of every moment I had failed her—every instance I had kept her hidden, unnamed, and unacknowledged.

She looked at me like I had just rewritten the laws of her world. Like I had held her invisibility in my hands and torn it apart with one undeniable truth.

Mrs. Shrivastava.

Her throat bobbed—just once, barely visible. But I saw it. Felt it. That singular motion, that vulnerable flicker, spoke louder than anything she could've said aloud.

Her eyes shimmered with questions and emotions I had no right to expect after everything I had put her through—but none of it was rejection.

It was astonishment.

This wasn't a slip of the tongue; I had yet it wasn't enough, I knew well enough. It never would be. But it was something to begin with.

The principal, for her part, recovered with admirable grace, but even she couldn't fully hide her surprise.

Her eyes flitted between both of us, the slight uptick of her brows re-evaluating everything she thought she knew about who Pratiksha was and who we were.

All these years, my wife had stood in this very office countless times—filling out forms, attending meetings, and representing our family without ever being allowed to be called one of us.

She'd been the reliable shadow at my side, the woman who handled everything with quiet efficiency—from paperwork to parent-teacher meetings—while I stood beside her and let the world believe she was just another cog in my corporate machine.

But I’d rather eat mud than go back to hiding her and pretend she didn’t belong to me. Because the truth is—she does.

In ways too intricate for words, in quiet, stubborn corners of my soul where I had once exiled the idea of love, she took root and stayed. Through years of cold silences and closed doors, she stood beside me—not because she was weak, but because she was stronger than I ever deserved.

And still, I made her invisible.

She let me too—because somewhere beneath all the damage and distance, I think she still hoped that someday I’d remember the vows we took.

But now—watching her stunned and hopeful—I knew I’d crossed a line, and I had no intention of stepping back since my darkness had split to let her light in, and I wasn’t about to let it go out ever again.

"Well, since the introductions have been... clarified." The principal spoke again, this time teetering between professionalism and pure exasperation: "Let me inform you why we're all here today."

I glanced at the kids again.

Yup. Still zero remorse.

"These two," she continued, gesturing at the twins with a disapproving nod, "got into a physical altercation with another student on the playground this afternoon."

Pratiksha's arms dropped to her sides while her jaw slackened just a little. "Wait, what?"

"A scuffle," the principal emphasized. "Pushing. Shouting. Some name-calling. We had to separate them."

"But... they're six. What kind of scuffle are we talking about here?" I asked.

"Enough to cause a scene. Apparently, there was a disagreement over a painting project. Another child—Rohit Mehta—accused Nyesa of copying his drawing. Neel stepped in and said the boy called Nyesa names. Then there was a shoving match."

Oh, for the love of—I didn't know whether to be furious or impressed at their misplaced loyalty or just plain tired.

"They refused to write apology letters afterward," she added, her tone taking on a sharper edge. "Refused. As in, looked me in the eye and said no. Just like that."

I turned to look at my children again. "You what?"

Neel shrugged. "He started it."

Nyesa nodded fiercely. "Yeah, Daddy. Rohit said my rainbow looked like a potato and called me 'Pig' thrice! Which is mean. He was being a meanie."

"And I told him," Neel piped up, puffing his tiny chest, "if he talks to my sister like that again, I'd dump the whole blue paint bottle on his head."

Pratiksha's palm slapped gently across her forehead. "Oh my God!" She muttered under her breath.

The principal leaned forward, steepling her fingers like she was about to either lecture us or pray for deliverance.

"Mr. and Mrs. Shrivastava, this is not just about childish arguments. It's about boundaries. About respect. About the fact that your children are actively refusing to acknowledge wrongdoing. They are..." She paused, searching for the right word. "...unapologetic, assertive and stubborn."

I let out a slow exhale and glanced sideways at my wife, who was now pinching the bridge of her nose like it physically hurt her to witness the gene pool at work.

"They take after you." She whispered from the corner of her mouth, still facing forward.

"Oh, come on," I whispered back. "They literally copy you to the bone."

She didn't even look at me. "Yeah, but they inherited your guerrilla war tactics."

I almost choked on a laugh that had no business being this close to the surface in the middle of a crisis.

"I think it's best," The principal finally—mercifully—wrapped up her grand lecture with another sigh and a slow shake of the head, "that you take the children home for the day. Let them... reflect on their behavior. And maybe, as a family, you can discuss what appropriate conflict resolution looks like."

Reflect, she said.

Sure. Because six-year-olds are known for their deep internal moral audits.

Pratiksha rose from her seat, and I followed, a beat slower, because I already knew this was going to follow me all the way home like a bad credit score.

The kids looked up at us—two little gremlins with backpacks too big for their frames and attitudes bigger than both of us combined.

Their mother didn't say a word or even glance at them, for that matter. Her jaw was locked, eyes straight ahead, and spine stiff as if she was trying to play the "I'm not mad, I'm just deeply disappointed" card on them, and... damn, she was acing it in style.

We walked out of the principal's office like a shame parade, with her leading, silent and composed, the twins dragging their tiny feet like prisoners on their final march, and me bringing up the rear, wondering if this was karma or just really bad parenting I contributed to.

Once we got outside into the sun, I couldn't take the silence anymore.

"Alright," I muttered as I unlocked the car with a beep, "someone better start talking."

The twins looked up at me, expressions flickering somewhere between defensive and proud.

"Well?" I nudged, opening the back door and watching as they scrambled in. "What actually happened out there?"

Nyesa was the first to crack. Her bottom lip jutted out, but her eyes were breathing fire.

"That stupid Rohit..." she mumbled, her voice cracking around the edges, "he said... me and Neel don't have a mumma."

The words hit me like a freight train with no brakes while I heard Pratiksha's sharp inhale beside me. She didn't turn around, but her hand froze halfway to pulling her seatbelt, hovering midair.

"He said only babies draw rainbows," she went on, eyes big and glassy, "and when I said my mumma taught me drawing, he laughed and said I was lying 'cause our mom died."

Our son, who was silent this whole time, suddenly went stiff, holding his breath and probably his tears too, my stubborn little fighter.

Meanwhile, I felt something dark and cold twist inside my chest and seethe, forcing me to grip the steering wheel hard.

No. Nope. I reeled myself in, not wishing to lose it in front of the kids.

Breathe, Sahil.

I turned in my seat, slowly swallowing that massive lump in my throat that had no business being there. My voice, when I finally found it, came out low and tight.

"What... exactly did you say to him, sweetheart?"

"I said he was a liar. That we do have a mumma. I said, Our Mumma makes us breakfast and helps us with homework and gives the best cuddles to sleep and braids my hair nicely every morning."

“And I told him he's stupid!” Neel added, now warming up like he had something important—urgent—to prove. “I said, just ‘cause our first mumma became a star doesn’t mean we don’t have one now. Cause we do. And she's real, and she yells at us to brush our teeth twice and makes the best food in the world he would never get to taste, and she loves us even when we spill juice on the couch."

"And then?" I asked gently.

"I said if he ever says she’s not our Mumma again, I’d throw paint on his head and tell the whole class he still pees in his bed sometimes.”

God help me, I almost laughed.

Almost.

But one look at Pratiksha's face shut that down quick as she just sat there, staring straight ahead, like if she dared look anywhere else, her carefully restrained emotions would break loose and flood the entire car.

One hand sat curled into a tight, trembling fist in her lap; the other gripping the door handle looking like a woman holding in a scream so deep it physically hurt to see.

I reached across the console, not daring too much but just gently touching her wrist—quiet, cautious, like I was trying not to startle a wounded creature who might bolt at the first sign of vulnerability.

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t move either, just blinked—rapidly, unnaturally fast—like she was willing herself not to cry. Her lips pressed into a line so thin it looked like it hurt to hold back whatever it was swelling in her chest.

I turned my attention back to the kids, swallowing the knot in my throat.

"You listen to me, both of you," I said, trying to sound stern but calm, though my insides were doing somersaults.

"Number one, violence is not the answer. Okay? No matter how angry you get, paint is not a great weapon of choice either."

They both nodded, a little sheepishly.

"But number two..." I leaned back in my seat, looking between them. "You're not wrong about what you said. Pratiksha is your mumma. Maybe not the kind that carried you in her tummy like your mom, Aavya, did, but she'll always be the one that carries you through your tantrums, your nightmares, your bad days, and your school homework every single day."

I felt her breath hitch beside me.

"Anyone who says otherwise? Doesn't know what the hell they're talking about."

"Language, Sahil." Pratiksha, she finally whispered.

“Sorry.” I murmured, but my heart wasn’t in the apology.

However, just then, her warm, trembling fingers found mine, not to impose, but from the quiet overwhelm of emotion kept too long behind closed doors.

They curled around mine—not possessively to prove some point that my and the children's past with Nisha was done and dusted but just enough to send something inside me unraveling, slow and tender and irrevocable, like a tightly wound thread finally coming loose after years of bottled-up tension.

My heart stuttered, missed a step. Like it had forgotten how to beat to the rhythm of connection because this idiot didn’t quite know what to do with this gesture—this unspoken surrender that didn’t ask for anything but said everything.

I looked at her then—the woman I had kept in the shadows for far too long. The woman who had absorbed my silences, raised my children in the corners of their lives where no light had been offered, and loved them with a depth that had never demanded to be named.

Her eyes were clouded with unshed tears that clung to her lashes like a downpour threatening the horizon. Her lips quivered, not from weakness, but from the sheer force of holding back words that had never had space to be said.

And beneath it all she looked so tired, submerged in the bone-deep fatigue of someone who had given and given and given—without ever asking, without ever expecting, just hoping to be seen. To be enough.

And still, through it all, she was heartbreakingly beautiful.

Not in a fragile way.

In a way, the moon after an eclipse is beautiful—not untouched by darkness, but never consumed by it. In the way a harbor is beautiful to a sailor lost at sea. In the way home is beautiful when you’ve been wandering in the dark for too long.

When Pratiksha turned toward the backseat, the twins straightened instantly.

Their blotchy, tear-streaked faces looked at her unfiltered, unquestioning, like her mere attention wasn’t just speaking to them, but for them. Like she held the moon, the sun, and every star they’d ever wished upon in the palms of her hands.

"You both listen to me very carefully, okay?" Her gentle gaze moved between them—not just firm, but flooded with a love that could level mountains. “I am your Mumma. And anybody—anybody—who says otherwise? They’re fools. Big, clueless, loudmouth fools who don’t know the first thing about what it means to belong to someone. Because I’m the one,” she said, her voice cracking now, splintering like ice underfoot, “who will stand between you and the entire world if it ever tries to make you feel like you are anything less than enough."

“I’ll stay up all night before your exams, even when you say you don’t need help. I’ll remember how you like your food no matter how much you prefer your junk. I’ll be there for your nightmares, your crushes, your heartbreaks, and the days you feel like you’re not good enough.” Her hands now cupped both their cheeks, anchoring them—her thumbs brushing away tear stains with the tenderness of a thousand unspoken lullabies. “I will fight for you in ways you won’t even understand yet. I will cheer for you when you don’t win and believe in you even when you stop believing in yourself. You won’t always see it, and sometimes you’ll even wish I’d stop,” she smiled faintly through the tears, “but I’ll love you with everything I’ve got. No matter what.”

That was all they must have needed, as our brave little boy with his messy hair and even messier emotions climbed into her lap as if she was the only safe thing left in a world that had suddenly felt too cruel.

He buried his face tight to her chest, arms winding around her waist, while Pratiksha wrapped her arms around him instantly, fiercely, like a lioness shielding her cub. Her hand found the back of his head with aching familiarity, her cheek resting on his unruly hair as she rocked him in the only way mothers know how to soothe their babies, like she’d done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more, even if the world kept pretending she didn’t exist.

Nyesa, too, had her arms outstretched like wings, unable to bear to be left behind for even a second longer, and tumbled into Pratiksha’s side, and she caught her too without letting go of Neel, making room for both of them with one arm curved around Nyesa’s small back, the other still stroking Neel's curls as they melted into her, those two tiny hurricanes finally finding the stillness of their harbor.

In that moment, she didn’t just look like their mother but the very definition of the word, and as I watched them—her and the twins—fold into each other like limbs of the same soul, like three pieces of a single, aching constellation finally aligning—I felt something inside me crack open with the quiet violence of a dam surrendering to floodwaters.

She had become the gravity that kept them grounded.

The warmth that thawed the fear still clinging to their bones.

The lull in the storm that allowed those tiny chests to rise and fall in something that almost resembled peace.

And me?

I was on the outside looking in.

"Well, damn," I rasped out, the words scraping past a throat too tight with things I hadn’t said, hadn’t dared feel. A crooked smile tugged at my mouth, more of a wince in disguise. "Is this the part where I quietly get out of the car and let the three of you drive off into the sunset without me?"

I hadn’t planned to say it.

I hadn’t even known I felt it until it was out there, suspended between us like a truth too raw to take back, but it wasn’t just a joke but the unspoken fear of a man who’d watched love pass him by once and didn’t believe he deserved a second miracle because what was happening next to me—it didn’t belong to someone like me.

Not after everything.

Not after all the ways I had failed to show up, to speak, to see.

But then Pratiksha turned her head and looked at me. No, through me, like she could see every frayed wire inside my soul and didn’t flinch from the sparks.

Her eyes caught the dying light like storm clouds rimmed with gold, fierce and tender all at once.

They were flooded, not just with tears, but with truth.

A knowing. A depth I hadn’t earned but had somehow been given anyway, and in that single look was an answer to every question I had never dared to ask.

"You," she said, her voice low, steady, threaded with something unshakable, "are not getting out of anything."

She sniffled, a soft, inelegant sound that somehow made her seem even more breathtakingly human, and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

"You really think that we'd let you off the hook so easily?" Her voice was still a little shaky, but there was a teasing bite underneath—something warm and familiar, like the first flicker of light after a long, punishing winter.

I arched a brow, leaning back slightly into the headrest, trying for levity though my chest still felt too tight, too tender. “I was kind of banking on it, actually.”

Her eyes rolled skyward, and she huffed—a soft, incredulous scoff that might’ve once been irritation but now held the edges of a smile that had me mesmerized.

“Too bad, Sahil Shrivastava.” She stated it like a declaration and a verdict I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting for. “You’re ours. Bad humor, broody silences, tea addict, workaholic, and all.”

And then—my wife of three years, the woman I had let drift into the shadows of my carefully curated chaos—did something I had spent every day convincing myself I wasn’t ready for.

She reached out.

There was no urgency in her movement. No drama. No demand. Just a slow, steady offering—a hand extended toward me with a stillness so profound it echoed louder than any words ever could.

A quiet invitation across the chasm I had dug between us with my silences, my pride, my guilt—all those years I spent barricading myself behind duty, grief, and the illusion of control.

It was such a small gesture.

Deceptively simple.

But it cracked something inside me.

Because in that delicate warm hand despite the emotional winter I’d trapped us in—was everything I had been too blind, too stubborn, too broken to reach for.

Her faith. Her forgiveness. Her unfathomable ability to still want me despite everything.

She didn’t plead.

She didn’t push.

She just waited.

Like the ocean waits for the tide to return, sure of its place in the world.

And for reasons I couldn’t name, couldn’t justify, that single, silent act brought me to my knees more than all the tears I had seen her hide, more than the fierce tenderness with which she mothered my children—our children—as if they were carved from her own soul.

That hand—her hand—felt like a lifeline in a storm I had long accepted as permanent. It was the first warm thing I’d touched in years, and for a moment, it made me forget the frostbite I had mistaken for survival.

I stared.

At her.

At the way she sat there—still, unshaken, offering me us again like she had done a thousand quiet times before.

At the twins who just scooted over, instinctively making space in that tiny circle of love without condition or question, as if they’d always known this was how it was meant to be.

And in that stillness, I realized I hadn’t really lived in years.

I had functioned.

I had excelled.

I had survived.

But I hadn’t lived—not in the rich, messy, heart-wrenching way that comes from being part of something real.

Something fragile and full of flaws. Something worth fighting for.

I had spent so long standing at the edge of the life I already had, afraid to step in, afraid to need, afraid to be needed back.

But now?

Now, I reached.

I took her hand—slowly, reverently—as if touching something sacred.

Her fingers trembled.

So did mine.

Our hands fit together not perfectly, but honestly—like two people trying to remember the feel of home in one another after too long in the dark.

She gave a gentle tug and I moved along clumsily until my knee bumped against hers to send a shock of awareness through me.

A reminder that she was real, that this was real.

My arm brushed her side, featherlight and trembling, as if afraid the contact might break the fragile balance we’d somehow found.

Nyesa’s tiny foot jabbed sharply into my thigh whereas Neel remained wedged between us.

We simply stayed like that—entwined in elbows and limbs, tangled and imperfect, our breaths falling into an uneven rhythm that somehow made more sense than anything ever had.

Three heartbeats pulsed near mine. Three living, breathing reminders of everything I’d almost lost.

None of them perfect.

All of them essential.

Without them, my own heartbeat felt like an unfinished melody but now, with them pressed against me in this chaotic tangle of warmth and forgiveness, it finally felt complete like my heart had been waiting for this rhythm all along.

Pratiksha let out a sigh and rested her head against my shoulder. Her voice came next, so soft I almost missed it.

“We’re a bit of a mess, aren’t we?”

I turned my head slowly, let my cheek rest against the crown of her hair, breathing her in as she smelled of exotic roses like always.

“The good kind, hopefully." I murmured.

She turned her head slightly then, peering up at me with her poetic brown eyes that had seen more heartbreak than any person should, and still looked at me like I was someone worth hoping for.

“The best kind, actually.”

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Lots of Love,

ANKITA