The decision came on a Thursday evening.
Not after a breakdown.
Not after loneliness crept in.
But after an email.
Subject: Mandatory Office Attendance – Effective Immediately
Aarav read it twice, then once more, slower.
Five days a week.
No hybrid model.
No flexibility.
He closed the laptop and stared at the wall opposite him. The clock ticked loudly in the quiet apartment. Siya was asleep in the next room, her soft breathing the only reminder that time still moved forward even when he wished it wouldn’t.
Until now, he had managed.
Two days a week at home. Three at the office. He scheduled meetings around school pick-up, answered emails late into the night, carried Siya with him into video calls where her presence was tolerated but never welcomed. It had been exhausting, but it had been his responsibility.
Now it wasn’t sustainable.
The next morning, he dropped Siya at school as usual. She held his hand tightly before getting into the bus.
“You’ll come early today?” she asked.
Aarav didn’t lie. “I’ll try.”
She nodded, accepting it with a maturity that hurt more than protest would have.
That evening, after she slept, he opened his laptop again.
This time, he searched for a caretaker.
Meera arrived three days later.
Aarav had taken a half-day leave—not because he wanted to be present, but because transitions needed to be handled once, properly, and never revisited. He believed in efficiency that way.
She rang the bell exactly at 8:30 a.m.
When he opened the door, she stood straight, hands folded loosely in front of her, expression calm but alert. No nervous smiles. No over-familiar warmth.
“I’m Meera,” she said.
“Aarav,” he replied, stepping aside. “Please come in.”
She removed her sandals neatly and entered, her gaze brief and observant. The house was modest, clean, quiet. A home that functioned, not one that invited.
“My daughter is at school,” Aarav said as they walked toward the dining table. “She’ll return by 3:30. I’ll be at office until late.”
Meera nodded. “I understand.”
He slid a folder across the table. “Her routine. Emergency contacts. Food preferences.”
She opened it, skimmed through once, then closed it. “No allergies?”
“No.”
“Any medical concerns?”
“No.”
“She sleeps by 9?”
“Yes.”
She asked nothing unnecessary.
That reassured him.
“This is a professional arrangement,” Aarav said. “I don’t expect—” he paused, choosing words carefully, “—emotional dependency.”
Meera looked at him steadily. “I’m here to take care of your child, not replace anyone.”
Something in her tone—neutral, firm—made him nod.
Good.
He picked up his car keys. “I’ll be leaving now. The house key is on the hook. Lock up when you leave.”
“Alright.”
He didn’t look back as he left.
Work was relentless that day.
Back-to-back meetings. A delayed deployment. A client escalation that required immediate attention. Aarav slipped easily into his professional self—the version of him that functioned without emotion, without pause.
Still, at 4:02 p.m., his phone buzzed.
Meera: Siya is home.
No greeting. No emoji.
At 6:15:
Meera: Homework done. She’s drawing now.
At 7:40:
Meera: Dinner finished. Bath done.
Efficient. Predictable.
He put the phone face-down and returned to his screen.
When he finally reached home, it was past nine.
The lights were still on.
Meera stood near the sofa, bag in hand. Siya sat cross-legged on the floor, coloring book open.
She looked up immediately. “Appa!”
Aarav dropped his bag and crouched, opening his arms. Siya ran into him, wrapping herself around his neck.
“You’re late,” she said, not accusing—just stating a fact.
“I know,” he murmured.
Meera watched quietly, not intruding.
“She waited,” Meera said. “I told her you’d come.”
Aarav nodded. “Thank you.”
Siya yawned, suddenly exhausted now that he was home. Aarav carried her to bed, tucked her in, kissed her forehead.
“I drew you,” she whispered sleepily.
“I’ll see it tomorrow.”
She smiled and turned over.
When he stepped back into the living room, Meera was at the door.
“I’ll leave now,” she said.
“Yes.”
She hesitated, then added, “She asked about her mother today.”
Aarav’s hand tightened slightly around the strap of his laptop bag.
“What did you say?”
“That her amma loved her very much,” Meera replied. “And that some people leave even when they don’t want to.”
He studied her for a moment. “That was appropriate.”
“I try to be,” she said simply.
She left without another word.
Later that night, Aarav sat alone at the dining table.
Siya’s drawing lay there.
Three figures. One tall. One small. One in between.
He folded the paper carefully and placed it in a drawer.
Hiring Meera had been practical. Necessary. Logical.
Yet something about the day unsettled him.
Not because anything had gone wrong.
But because nothing had.
The house had run smoothly without him.
Siya had laughed without him.
Dinner had been cooked without him.
He told himself this was relief. This was help.
Not displacement.
Not loss.
Still, as he turned off the lights and went to bed, a thought surfaced—quiet, unwelcome, persistent:
If someone could step in so easily, how much space had he really been filling?
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