By the end of the second week, the arrangement had settled into routine.
Aarav left for work every morning by eight. Meera arrived shortly after, her presence unobtrusive, her movements efficient. Breakfast was prepared without excess, school bags checked twice, shoes tied neatly. Siya grew used to the rhythm quickly—used to the way Meera reminded her without insisting, guided without hovering.
Earlier, Aarav had managed most mornings himself. A few days a week of remote work, a few hurried office mornings where Siya stayed back with a neighbour. It had been functional, if imperfect. Now, work demanded his presence daily. The decision to hire a nanny had been practical, unavoidable.
That was how he framed it.
Meera walked Siya to school every morning, stopping at the gate, never entering the premises unless asked. Siya would turn once, sometimes twice, before disappearing into the building. Meera always waited until she was out of sight before leaving.
In the afternoons, she returned alone.
Siya’s class was dismissed at three thirty.
By three fifteen, the entrance of the school filled with parents, grandparents, drivers, caretakers—each one waiting with a practiced familiarity. Conversations overlapped. Children’s voices spilled through the open gate. The air held a particular impatience, sharpened by routine.
Meera stood slightly apart from the others, her posture composed but alert. She kept her eyes on the gate, scanning faces as they appeared. She did not check her phone. She did not sit.
Siya emerged last, as she often did.
She walked with deliberate steps, her bag slipping slightly off one shoulder, her attention fixed forward rather than on her classmates. When she spotted Meera, she stopped. Just for a second. Then her face changed—not dramatically, not loudly—but in a way Meera had begun to recognise. Her shoulders eased. Her pace quickened.
“You came,” Siya said when she reached her.
“Yes,” Meera replied. “I told you I would.”
Siya nodded, as though confirming something for herself. She did not look past Meera in search of her father. She did not ask why he wasn’t there. Instead, she reached out and slipped her hand into Meera’s.
The gesture was small, unselfconscious.
They walked home together.
Siya spoke in fragments, jumping from one thought to another—about a classmate who had forgotten her lunch, about a maths problem she had solved quickly, about a teacher who had smiled at her. Meera listened without interruption, responding only when Siya paused, careful not to steer the conversation.
At a crossing, Siya stumbled slightly. Meera steadied her by the arm, adjusting her grip so their hands were joined again.
“Papa used to hold my hand like that,” Siya said casually, without accusation or nostalgia.
Meera did not stop walking. “He still will,” she replied evenly. “He’s just busy right now.”
“I know,” Siya said after a moment. Then, quieter, “You hold it the same.”
Meera said nothing.
By the time they reached the apartment, Siya was visibly tired. She removed her shoes without being told and went straight to wash her hands. Meera followed, guiding her gently, handing her a towel before Siya could ask.
When Aarav returned home that evening, it was later than usual.
He expected the apartment to greet him with its familiar stillness—a silence that absorbed sound rather than reflecting it. Instead, he heard voices as soon as he stepped inside. Siya’s voice carried clearly from the living room.
“…and then teacher said I was right,” she was saying.
“That must have felt good,” Meera replied.
Aarav paused near the door, listening longer than he intended to. When he finally entered the room, Siya noticed him immediately and ran toward him.
“Appa!”
She hugged him, brief but warm, then stepped back, her attention shifting easily.
“Meera aunty picked me up today,” she announced.
“I know,” Aarav said. “Did everything go alright?”
“Yes,” Siya replied. “She came on time.”
Meera stood near the dining table, hands loosely clasped, as though waiting to be addressed. “She waited at the gate,” she added. “She was very calm.”
Aarav nodded. His gaze returned to Siya. There was something different about her—nothing obvious, nothing he could immediately define. She looked tired, but settled. Less restless.
Dinner passed more smoothly than usual.
Siya ate without complaint. She asked for seconds. She spoke freely, addressing both of them without distinction. When she laughed, it surprised Aarav—not because laughter was rare, but because it came without hesitation.
After dinner, Meera helped Siya with her homework. Aarav sat nearby with his laptop, pretending to work. Siya leaned closer to Meera, pointing at words, asking questions she often resisted asking him. Meera answered patiently, her tone consistent, never condescending.
When Siya made a mistake, Meera let her correct it herself.
When it was time for bed, Siya lingered.
“Will Meera aunty come tomorrow also?” she asked Aarav.
“Yes,” he replied, after a pause too brief to be noticeable. “She will.”
Satisfied, Siya turned to Meera. “Good night.”
Later, after Meera had left, Aarav tucked Siya in.
“You like her,” he said, carefully neutral.
Siya thought about it. “She listens.”
Aarav did not respond.
The apartment grew quiet again, but the silence was altered. Less dense. Less absolute.
Aarav stood in the living room for a long moment, looking around. Nothing had changed. The furniture was the same. The lights cast the same shadows. And yet, the space felt less closed in on itself.
He reminded himself that this was temporary. Necessary. That he had hired Meera to make things easier—not to complicate them.
Still, as he turned off the lights and prepared for bed, he acknowledged a truth he had not yet decided how to face.
His daughter was forming a bond he had not planned for.
And in that bond, something warm—something long absent—was quietly returning to the house.
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