Page 13 of The Ruin I Chose

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.

After Ritu left, the room fell into silence. I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my bathrobe, hair damp, skin still warm from the bath. My phone lay face down on the nightstand. I stared at it for a long time before picking it up.

It was 8 in Italy—just in time to catch her before bedtime. I dialled. Her voice came through like sunlight.

“Mummy!”

My heart clenched. Nothing in the world sounded like her.

My throat tightened.

“Hi, baby.”

“I missed you today. Did you eat? Did you see Vaibhav uncle’s lights?”

I smiled, but it hurt.

“I did. And I thought of you.”

She giggled. “Did you take pictures?”

“I did. I’ll send them to granny.”

There was a pause. Then her voice dropped, quieter.

“Are you coming back soon?”

Her voice always found the cracks in me.

I swallowed hard. “I will. Just a few more days.”

She didn’t say anything but I could hear her breathing. I could hear her heart. And mine broke.

I pressed my hand to my chest, as if I could hold the pieces together.

I wanted to tell her everything. That I hated leaving her. That I felt like I was failing her. That every time I laughed or felt something stir inside me, I thought of her—alone, waiting, wondering.

I wanted to tell her that being a mother meant splitting yourself into pieces and handing them out like candy.

That I hadn’t felt whole in years. That I was tired of being the strong one. The planner. The provider. The woman who paid the bills and packed the lunches and smiled through the silence.

I wanted to tell her that I loved her more than anything. More than my work. More than life itself. But I didn’t. She was too little and I was too broken.

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you more,” she said.

I closed my eyes. Let the tears fall quietly.

After the call, I lay back on the bed, towel still wrapped around me. The ache in my chest was sharp. The kind you carry quietly because saying it out loud feels like failure. The ache of every mother who’s ever wanted to be two places at once. The ache of every woman who’s ever wanted to be more than just someone’s wife, someone’s mother, someone’s anchor.

I thought of my husband. How he never planned a thing.

How I’d booked every dinner, every trip, every anniversary. How he’d show up, half-present, half-elsewhere. Always on his phone. How I’d paid the bills and the emotional tax. I had spent years filling in the blanks he left behind.

And I thought of Marcello. How he’d looked at me with restraint. How he hadn’t asked me to be anything but myself. He looked at me like he was trying to read me, understand me, and want to want me.

It was terrifying—being seen without being needed. And I hated that it felt good. I hated that I wanted more.