The realization unsettled him more than he expected.
It wasn’t that Meera had done anything wrong. On the contrary, she had done everything exactly as asked. She arrived on time, left on time, respected boundaries that had never been explicitly stated. She spoke to Aarav, when necessary, deferred decisions to him, and never inserted herself where she did not belong.
And yet, something had shifted.
Aarav became aware of it in the smallest ways—his expectations changing without conscious permission. He noticed if Meera was late by even a few minutes. He listened for her footsteps in the morning. He found himself registering the sound of Siya’s laughter and instinctively connecting it to Meera’s presence.
That connection frightened him.
So, he began to correct it.
He started returning later from work.
Not deliberately at first. A meeting here, a delayed task there. But soon, the pattern became intentional. By the time he reached home, dinner was usually done. Siya was either finishing homework or preparing for bed.
The evenings shortened.
Conversations reduced to necessity.
Meera noticed.
She did not comment on it. She never asked why his hours had changed or whether he would be home earlier. But she adjusted—feeding Siya earlier, completing routines more efficiently, stepping back before Aarav had to.
The space between them widened quietly.
One evening, Aarav returned home earlier than intended. The project he had been waiting on was postponed, leaving him unexpectedly free. As he entered the apartment, he heard Siya’s voice—soft, intent.
“Again,” she said. “Tell it again.”
Aarav stopped near the doorway.
Meera was sitting beside Siya on the sofa, a book open in her lap. She was not reading from it. She was telling the story from memory, her voice steady, unembellished. Siya leaned against her, head resting comfortably against Meera’s arm.
Aarav felt the familiar tightening in his chest.
He cleared his throat.
Both of them looked up.
Siya smiled. “Appa, you’re early.”
“Yes,” he replied, his tone neutral. “I’ll take over.”
Meera closed the book immediately. “Alright.”
She stood, smoothing the edge of her kurta, stepping away without hesitation.
Aarav sat beside Siya, opened the book, and began reading from the page Meera had left off. Siya listened, but her attention wandered. She interrupted once, then again.
“Meera aunty tells it better,” she said plainly.
Aarav paused.
He finished the page, closed the book, and stood. “It’s time for bed.”
Later that night, as Meera prepared to leave, Aarav spoke.
“You don’t have to stay late anymore,” he said. “I’ll manage evenings.”
Meera nodded. “Of course.”
There was no argument in her voice. No disappointment he could accuse her of showing.
And that made it worse.
The boundary-setting became methodical.
Aarav stopped sitting in the living room while Meera was there. He retreated to his study under the pretext of work. He answered questions briefly. He avoided prolonged conversations.
He told himself this was necessary.
Attachment was dangerous. He had learned that lesson once, painfully. Allowing someone into their lives—even slowly, even carefully—created expectations. Expectations led to dependence. Dependence led to loss.
He would not allow that again.
Not for himself.
Not for Siya.
But children noticed what adults pretended not to.
One afternoon, Siya asked, “Did I do something wrong?”
Aarav looked up from his laptop. “Why would you ask that?”
“You don’t sit with us anymore.”
He closed the laptop. “I’m busy.”
“Oh,” she said quietly.
The word lingered longer than it should have.
Meera adjusted again.
She reduced her presence. Spoke less. Left earlier. She stopped initiating conversations with Siya that might stretch beyond homework or meals.
And yet, the bond between them did not weaken.
Siya waited for her every afternoon. Watched the gate until she appeared. Ran to her without hesitation. Reached for her hand instinctively.
One day, as they walked home, Siya asked, “Will you go away?”
Meera stopped walking.
“Why would you think that?” she asked gently.
“Appa doesn’t like you anymore.”
Meera crouched in front of her. “That’s not true.”
Siya studied her face carefully, as though searching for dishonesty. “You used to stay longer.”
Meera said nothing.
That night, Aarav overheard Siya crying.
He found her sitting on her bed, her knees drawn up, her face buried against the pillow.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting beside her.
She hesitated, then spoke in a small, uncertain voice.
“Will you leave me?”
The question startled him. “Why would you think that?”
She did not look at him. “You don’t like me anymore.”
Aarav felt his chest tighten. “That’s not true.”
“You don’t sit with us,” she said. “You don’t talk like before.”
He reached for her hand. “I’m just busy, Siya.”
She finally looked at him. “You were busy before also.”
The words landed harder than accusation.
“You won’t go, right?” she asked quietly. “You won’t stop loving me?”
Aarav pulled her into his arms, holding her more tightly than he had intended.
“I will never leave you,” he said firmly. “Never.”
She nodded against his shoulder, reassured enough to let her body relax.
But even as she drifted back to sleep, Aarav remained awake.
Because the fear in her voice had come from somewhere real.
He did not sleep well that night.
His thoughts circled the same truth he refused to acknowledge: his attempt to protect himself was costing his daughter something she valued.
But allowing closeness meant inviting uncertainty.
Loss.
He had spent years constructing a life built on predictability. On control. On the belief that love, once lost, could not be risked again.
Meera’s presence threatened that structure—not because she demanded anything, but because she offered something without asking for permission.
The following morning, Aarav was colder.
Professional.
He handed Meera instructions instead of conversations. Timings. Schedules. Expectations.
She accepted them all.
But as she prepared to leave that evening, she paused.
“If you ever feel this arrangement is no longer working,” she said quietly, “you can tell me.”
Aarav nodded. “I will.”
She left without waiting for reassurance.
And for the first time since she had entered their lives, Aarav felt something close to regret.
Not because he had pushed her away—
but because he wasn’t sure how long he could keep pretending that distance was safety,
when it was already beginning to feel like loss.
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