🧑‍🤝‍🧑 Main Characters: 

Ashima Verma – A compassionate, resilient woman in her late 20s with a high degree of emotional awareness. She is a committed mother caught between her nostalgic past and the current challenges she faces.

Mrs. Sunali Verma – Ashima's mother. She is a fiercely protective single parent who raised both Ashima and Ronit on her own. She is practical and nurturing.

Ronit Verma – Ashima's younger brother. He is playful, a bit plump, and full of antics, bringing joy to Ashima during her toughest moments.

Karan Malhotra ( Husband) – Ashima’s spouse, who is kind and supportive.

The morning light streamed through delicate curtains, casting a warm gold over the light beige walls of a cozy yet vibrant apartment in Lucknow. The aroma of freshly made parathas filled the air, intertwined with the sharp fragrance of ginger in the chai.

Ashima Verma softly hummed a melody as she arranged the breakfast table, her hands moving with the silent grace developed through years of affection and routine. Clad in a simple pink cotton kurta, her hair loosely braided, her face shone not from cosmetics, but with a gentle joy of satisfaction.

“Where’s my wallet, sweetheart?” Karan called out from the bedroom, his tone playfully exasperated.

“It’s in the drawer beside the bed—just like always!” Ashima responded with a chuckle, rolling her eyes with fondness.

Karan Malhotra, her husband of four years, strolled into the kitchen moments later, wallet in hand and a sheepish smile across his face. His shirt was partially buttoned, and his hair was still damp from the shower. He resembled a man perpetually on the brink of being late, always relying on his wife to keep him steady.

Ashima turned to face him, her heart fluttering like the first time he held her hand at the tea stall near the university.

“Your tea is going to get cold,” she cautioned.

“And you get more beautiful with each morning. What should I do about that?” he asked, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Drink your chai, Mr. Filmy,” she replied, smirking, though her cheeks were already colored with a blush.

Their love story wasn’t grand. No dramatic declarations, no daring elopements. Just two souls discovering a subtle kind of magic within one another. Karan, a civil engineer whose heart was too tender for his job, and Ashima, a literature graduate dreaming of writing children’s books someday. They resided in a rented apartment with second-hand furniture, worn-out curtains, and a small balcony where they tended to tulsi and money plants. But it felt like home.

Ronit, Ashima’s younger brother, burst in without knocking—just as he always did—munching on toast.

“Didi, Mom is saying I can’t skip college again, but I promise I have a fever,” he said dramatically, clutching his forehead.

“You have a real case of laziness,” Ashima laughed as she handed him a tiffin.

Karan tousled Ronit’s curly hair. “Your sister skipped half of her college classes and still scored higher than I did. So if you want to be a genius like her, maybe skip the theatrics.”

Ronit groaned. “You both are teaming up against me. This is emotional torture.”

Ashima observed the two of them—her brother and her husband—and smiled softly. Her two boys, forever teasing each other, always vying for the last piece of dessert, and constantly making her laugh.

What else could she desire?

Later that evening, as she rested beside Karan with her head on his chest, she murmured, “Do you ever get the feeling… that this is too perfect? Like, our happiness is overwhelming?”

Karan gently brushed his fingers through her hair. “No, I believe we've waited long enough for this. You, me, and perhaps one day… a little version of us.”

Ashima beamed, feeling a slight flutter in her stomach. At that moment, she did not realize that life was paying attention.

And that it would soon challenge every bit of the love they shared.

It was a Thursday.

Ashima recalled every detail of that day. The precise way the light streamed through the window. The scent of rain lingered in the air — that earthy petrichor fragrance that Karan adored. He had been particularly hurried that morning, brushing her cheek with a kiss instead of sharing their usual breakfast.

“I’ll be back by lunchtime, okay?” he said, one shoe on, one hand clutching his bag.

“You mentioned that yesterday too,” she teased, playfully crossing her arms.

“This time I truly mean it,” he grinned, pulling her in for a swift hug. “We’ll go out for chaat tonight. Just the two of us.”

“Pinkie promise?” she inquired, extending her pinky like a child.

He entwined his finger with hers. “Pakki baat. Now smile, madam. You look your best when you smile.”

She waved him off with a grin. That was the final time she laid eyes on him.

It was around noon when the phone rang.

Ashima was folding laundry, keeping an eye on the news playing in the background. She didn’t recognize the number flashing on the screen, but something within her froze.

“Mrs. Ashima Malhotra?” the voice on the other end inquired.

“Yes…?”

“There’s been an accident. Your husband… he’s been taken to City Hospital. Please come right away.”

The world didn’t spin. It halted. Just like that.

She didn’t cry, not yet. She instructed Ronit to grab the keys. Her hands moved on autopilot. Her body became a machine, performing the task of reaching him.

The hospital hallways reeked of antiseptic and despair. She dashed barefoot — her slippers were left somewhere in the car. The receptionist directed her toward the emergency wing, and she caught sight of a blood-splattered stretcher being wheeled out. For a brief moment, she hoped it couldn’t be him.

But it was.

Karan's face was hardly visible, half-covered in gauze, with the rest bruised and broken. Machines beeped around him like harsh timers.

A doctor approached softly. “We tried everything. Internal bleeding… his head injuries were too severe. I’m sorry.”

The word “sorry” reverberated, but never truly reached her.

The funeral was a haze of faces, sobs, and the scent of marigolds. Ashima remained motionless, expressionless, as people touched her feet, whispered condolences, and wept around her. She didn’t cry. Not yet.

That night, in the stillness of their home, surrounded by his untouched shirt, his half-read book, and the mug he had left on the table, she pressed her hand to her belly.

She had sensed something peculiar that morning. A flutter.

She hadn’t shared the news with Karan yet.

She was expecting a baby.

That’s when she fell apart.

Sitting on the bedroom floor, curled in on herself, she screamed. Not words — just anguish. A pain that lacked form, a name, or resolution.

Her mother rushed in, embracing her, rocking her as she used to when she was a child frightened of thunderstorms.

But this tempest was within her now.

And she had no idea how to endure it.

The days following Karan’s death faded into an indistinct haze.

Phone calls. Condolences. Tea cups left untouched. Plates of food that went unconsumed. Her mangalsutra clung to her neck as if it were unaware it had lost its significance. Her bangles rested in the drawer. The sindoor had long been erased by the tears she couldn’t recall crying.

Ronit moved through the house quietly, his former loud laughter now absent. Even the walls seemed to hold their breath.

But within Ashima, something refused to be quiet.

At first, it was merely a flutter. Just a slight movement beneath her ribs. A heartbeat that wasn’t hers, yet felt entirely like her own.

Three days post-funeral, she sat on the examination table in a small clinic. The doctor, an elderly woman with compassionate eyes, examined her ultrasound results.

“You’re approximately four months along,” she stated gently. Considering the trauma, we must be cautious. But the baby appears to be doing well. Very strong.”

Ashima gazed at the screen. That little flicker. That heartbeat.

Karan’s final gift.

“Do you wish to continue the pregnancy?” the doctor inquired softly. “We can provide counseling if you need time

“No,” Ashima declared, surprising even herself with the determination in her voice. “I am going to keep the baby.”

The doctor regarded her for a moment, then nodded in understanding.

Upon returning home, her decision wasn’t celebrated. Her mother was taken aback.

“Beta… please reconsider. You’re so young. Alone. People will have opinions.”

“I am not concerned about what others think.”

“You’ll be a single mother. It will be difficult.”

“I am already a mother,” Ashima stated, resting her hand on her belly. “And this child is all I have left of him.”

Mrs. Sunali Verma didn’t argue further. She simply sat next to her daughter, held her hand, and cried.

Ronit, wide-eyed and silent, finally spoke up. “Can I be the baby’s second dad?”

Ashima broke into her first genuine smile in days. “You already are, chhotu.”