The change did not announce itself.
It arrived in fragments—brief, almost unremarkable moments that Aarav would have dismissed if he were not already watching himself so closely.
It began with breakfast.
Siya had always eaten hurriedly in the mornings, more out of habit than appetite. Aarav usually stood near the counter with his coffee, checking emails, issuing reminders without looking up. Meera prepared meals efficiently and kept conversation minimal, respecting the unspoken tone of the household.
One morning, Siya lingered at the table.
She pushed her plate away slightly, then pulled it back. “Can I have more?”
Meera looked at Aarav, instinctively deferring.
“Yes,” he said after a brief pause. “If you want.”
Siya smiled faintly and resumed eating.
It was nothing. And yet, Aarav found himself sitting down as well, coffee untouched, watching the quiet concentration with which his daughter finished her food.
Later, as he left for work, he noticed that he was not already exhausted.
The afternoons remained unchanged.
Meera continued picking Siya up from school. Siya continued waiting for her at the gate. The trust between them had settled into certainty, no longer needing reassurance.
But something else began to happen.
Siya started bringing pieces of her day home—not just facts, but emotions. A disagreement with a friend. A moment of pride. A question she wasn’t sure how to ask.
Meera listened, and later, at dinner, Siya repeated those stories for her father. Not urgently. Not insistently. Just as shared information.
Aarav responded more than he realised.
He asked questions. Clarified details. Occasionally smiled.
One evening, Siya laughed unexpectedly at something Meera said—a sound sudden and unrestrained. Aarav looked up sharply, startled by its ease.
It reminded him of a time before he had learned to be careful with happiness.
Meals became slower.
Meera cooked simple food—nothing elaborate, nothing unfamiliar. She asked Siya what she wanted occasionally, accepted refusals without offence. Aarav noticed that Siya no longer picked at her food absentmindedly.
One night, as they sat together, Meera mentioned a recipe her mother used to make.
Siya asked questions. Aarav listened without comment.
The conversation drifted, unforced.
When Meera finished eating, she stood to clear the table.
“I can do that,” Aarav said suddenly.
She paused, surprised. “It’s alright.”
“I know.”
He gathered the plates anyway.
In the kitchen, the sounds were ordinary—water running, dishes clinking softly. Aarav washed. Meera dried. They did not speak much.
But the silence was different.
Not defensive.
Laughter returned in brief, unexpected ways.
Once, Siya spilled water while reaching for her glass. She froze, waiting.
Before Aarav could respond, Meera laughed lightly. “It’s okay. It happens.”
Siya laughed too, relief evident.
Aarav exhaled without realising he’d been holding his breath.
Another time, Siya tried telling a joke she had learned at school and forgot the ending halfway through. Meera helped her finish it. Aarav smiled, then laughed quietly at himself for doing so.
He did not correct himself.
Evenings softened.
Aarav began sitting in the living room again—not always, not deliberately, but often enough that it became noticeable. Sometimes he worked from the sofa. Sometimes he simply observed.
He noticed the way Meera tied Siya’s hair loosely, never pulling too tight. The way Siya leaned into her without hesitation. The way Meera never assumed authority, yet was obeyed.
The house felt warmer.
Not louder. Not chaotic.
Just lived in.
One evening, the power went out briefly.
Siya startled. “Appa?”
“I’m here,” he said immediately.
Meera lit a candle without fuss and placed it on the table. The room glowed softly.
Siya sat between them on the floor, playing with shadows on the wall.
“This is nice,” she said.
Aarav said nothing.
But he did not turn the lights on immediately when the power returned.
The resistance loosened without his permission.
Aarav caught himself waiting for Meera to return with Siya in the afternoons. Not standing by the door, not watching the clock—but listening.
For footsteps.
For voices.
For proof that the house was not empty.
One evening, Meera was delayed by fifteen minutes.
Aarav checked the time twice before he realised what he was doing.
When they arrived, Siya was animated, talking at once.
“We had to wait,” she explained. “The bus was late.”
“I see,” Aarav said.
He did not say anything else.
But when Meera apologised, he replied, “It’s fine.”
And meant it.
The most telling moment came without warning.
It was late. Siya was already in bed. Aarav and Meera stood in the kitchen, finishing small tasks neither had rushed to complete.
Meera spoke casually. “She’s been sleeping better.”
Aarav nodded. “I’ve noticed.”
“She feels safe here,” Meera added, then stopped herself. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” he said quietly.
The admission surprised them both.
Meera looked at him, her expression unreadable.
Aarav broke eye contact first.
That night, as he tucked Siya in, she asked, “Can Meera aunty eat with us every day?”
He hesitated only briefly. “Yes.”
She smiled, already half asleep.
Aarav stayed longer than necessary.
The fear was still there—quiet, persistent. He had not forgotten what it meant to lose. He had not convinced himself that love was safe.
But something else had begun to coexist with that fear.
A sense of ease.
Of shared space.
Of laughter that did not demand explanation.
As he turned off the light and closed the door softly behind him, Aarav acknowledged a truth he had resisted for weeks.
These ordinary moments—meals, conversations, laughter—were changing the house.
And whether he was ready or not,
they were changing him too.
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