She stayed through the afternoon and into the evening. My parents asked polite questions, and Arnav refused to leave her side. I wanted to ask her to go, but the words wouldn’t come. Eventually, my mother invited her to stay for dinner—and for the night. She agreed instantly, as if she’d been waiting for permission.

Late that night, I got up for water. The lights in the living room were still on. As I reached to turn them off, I heard voices—my mother and Meera. I stopped without meaning to and listened.

“It’s been three years,” my mother said softly. “Why haven’t you moved on?”

Meera’s reply was quiet, but steady.

“I can’t, Māta ji. There’s only him in my heart.”

I held my breath.

“Then why did you divorce?” my mother asked. SAY YES IF YOU

My ex-wife came to see our son and ended up staying the night. I let her sleep in the living room. Around midnight, I got up for a glass of water and overheard something I was never meant to hear. By morning, I made a decision that changed everything.

It’s been three years since the divorce papers were signed. I’m Rohit, and my life has settled into a quiet routine with just my son, Arnav, and me. I take him to school in the mornings, pick him up in the afternoons, and we have dinner with my parents every evening in Kanpur. It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s calm. I had convinced myself that this was enough—that the past was behind us.

Until yesterday.

She stood at the gate, familiar yet different. Same face, but her eyes no longer held the certainty they once did. There was hesitation there. And hope. She said she wanted to see Arnav. I hesitated, then stepped aside.

When Arnav saw her, he froze for a second—then ran straight into her arms. His smile was brighter than I’d seen in years. Watching them, my chest tightened. I realized how much he had missed her, even in ways he’d never said aloud.

She stayed through the afternoon and into the evening. My parents asked polite questions, and Arnav refused to leave her side. I wanted to ask her to go, but the words wouldn’t come. Eventually, my mother invited her to stay for dinner—and for the night. She agreed instantly, as if she’d been waiting for permission.

Late that night, I got up for water. The lights in the living room were still on. As I reached to turn them off, I heard voices—my mother and Meera. I stopped without meaning to and listened.

“It’s been three years,” my mother said softly. “Why haven’t you moved on?”

Meera’s reply was quiet, but steady.
“I can’t, Māta ji. There’s only him in my heart.”

I held my breath.