Meher’s hands rest lightly on her stomach, and her smile—oh, her smile is soft, trembling at the edges but bright enough to rival the sun. “I’m pregnant.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Sitara squeals so loudly that Veeraj bhai-sa actually flinches. She throws her arms around Meher, peppering her with tight hugs and questions all at once. And I can see Meher stiffening, just a bit, but I did notice she isn’t very fond of open affection. Devraj bhai-sa’s expression doesn’t shift much—he’s too reserved for grand displays—but his hand tightens gently over Meher’s, and the depth in his eyes says everything words cannot.
My throat burns unexpectedly, and I blink hard. Joy radiates through the group, warm and contagious, and I realize my cheeks are aching from smiling.
“Congratulations,” I whisper, leaning forward to hug her too. She smells faintly of jasmine, and when she hugs me back, it feels like being pulled into the very center of this family.
Vihaan slips his hand into mine under the blanket, squeezing once. When I glance at him, his grin is wide, proud, and so full of love that I can’t look away.
The rest of the afternoon unfolds in shades of laughter and teasing. Sitara declares herself the future doting bua and starts listing all the things she’ll spoil the baby with. Veeraj bhai-sa mutters about noise and sleepless nights, but the way his hand stays on Sitara’s knee gives him away. Vihaan and I exchange amused glances, sharing a silent language that makes my chest feel light.
At some point, I lie back on the blanket, watching the sky shift from brilliant blue to softer hues, my head pillowed on Vihaan’sthigh. His fingers trace absent patterns along my arm, and I close my eyes, letting the sounds of laughter, rustling leaves, and faraway birds sink into me.
This. This is what I didn’t know I needed. A family picnic. A day in the sun. A memory I’ll hold close when the world feels heavy again.
And when I tilt my face up to see Vihaan looking down at me, his smile tender and unguarded, I realize something else too.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like an outsider watching happiness from the sidelines.
I’m in it.
Right here, under this tree, with these people, with him.
And I never want to let it go.
EPILOGUE 1
The Uninvited Client
3 YEARS LATER
POORVI
It has been a year since I opened the doors of this little place. A year of learning patience, disappointment, joy in tiny victories, and stubbornness in the face of what sometimes feels like failure.
When I told Vihaan I wanted to start a mental health facility—a space where people could walk in, sit down, and talk without worrying about money—he didn’t question me once. He didn’t ask me about profit or sustainability, didn’t weigh it against the palace duties that still hung on his shoulders. He just looked at me like I had said something that made perfect sense, like it was the most natural thing for me to want.
“If this is what you want, meri jaan, I’ll help you,” he’d said that night, his hand curled around mine like an anchor. And he has helped. More than I could’ve imagined.
I wanted this because I know what it feels like to choke on silence, to feel invisible even when people are looking rightat you. I wanted this because I had enough money, more than I could spend in two lifetimes if I lived modestly. Yes, financial independence matters, and Vihaan made sure of mine long before I could stand firmly on it myself. But money without meaning is useless. I wanted something that gave back, something that might save even one person from feeling the way I once did.
Still, if I’m honest, the place isn’t doing well. The stigma is thick—it sits in the air like humidity no one wants to acknowledge. People hesitate. They peek through the glass door, then walk away. Some come once and never return. Others sit stiff and restless, as if they are doing something shameful by being here. I can’t change that overnight, but I try. Every day, I try.
The waiting room is empty when I check the clock. My next slot is free, which means another hour alone with my notebook and the fan whirring overhead. I sigh and bend over my notes, reminding myself that even showing up to an empty room is part of the work.
And then the door creaks.
I lift my head. A man walks in, purposeful as always, though I don’t miss the faint twitch of amusement tugging his mouth. I bite back a smile. Of course. He’ll never stop doing this.
Today, he’s wearing glasses that don’t suit him in the slightest, and his hair is parted differently, as if a change in combing direction makes him unrecognizable. He even has a faint smudge of what I suspect is bronzer on his cheeks. I want to laugh outright, but I keep my composure, because I know the game. He’s pretending. Again.
He lowers himself onto the couch across from me with the solemn air of a man carrying the weight of the world. His voice drops into a formal tone. “Ma’am,” he begins, fingers steepled dramatically. “I am in too much trouble.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He is very serious, too serious. I fold my hands and tilt my head, a professional mask slipping over my features. “What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
He exhales deeply, as though even saying the words will cost him dearly. “You see, I am absolutely, madly in love with my wife.”
I blink, keeping my face neutral. “That sounds like a wonderful problem to have.”
