It had been a year since my mother passed away. When the pain had not yet subsided, my father – a quiet, reserved man – suddenly announced that he was remarrying. The woman was almost twenty years younger than him.

Since the wedding, every night my father told me:

“After eight o’clock, you two should come home a little later. I need to rest.”

The house in Dwarka, Delhi, which was already quiet, has become even more empty since my mother passed away. My father often sat for hours by the window, on an old rattan chair, his eyes gazing out at the road full of fallen sala flowers. Perhaps he was still searching for my mother somewhere in his memories.

We – three sisters – were all grown up. One worked in Gurgaon, one in Noida, one still lived with my father. Everyone thought that he would live the rest of his life in quiet solitude. But no one expected that, just a year later, my father would marry a new wife – a woman only a few years older than my eldest sister.

The news was like a thunderbolt.

No one objected, but everyone was hurt and angry.

“Mom just passed away a year ago… how could Dad?”

My eldest sister chose to remain silent. My younger brother left for Bangalore to work, without a word of goodbye.

As for me – still staying in that house, but the distance between me and Dad was growing.

He still repeated the old saying:

“After eight o’clock, you guys come home late, so Dad can rest.”

The sentence sounded polite, but everyone understood in their hearts – it was a way to make way for the new woman.

I said nothing. No one said anything. The silence stretched like mist throughout the house.

One rainy evening, after finishing work early, I decided to come home before eight o’clock – I don’t know if it was out of curiosity or anger.

When I opened the door, there was a giggle coming from Dad’s room – a woman’s voice mixed with his.

I stopped, my heart aching.

Are they happy while my mother’s first death anniversary has not yet passed?

I was about to turn away when I heard the woman’s voice – as gentle as the October breeze:

– “You keep talking about her as if she were still alive.”

– “She still lives in my heart,” my father replied. “If I let myself be lost in my memories, my children will never be free from the pain. I married you, not to forget her… but to have someone to help me live like a normal person.”

I was stunned.
It turned out that all this time, I had only seen my own loss, forgetting that my father was also suffering.

The next morning, I went to the kitchen.
The woman was cooking. She was wearing a simple sari, her black hair tied back, no makeup.

When she saw me, she smiled slightly:

– “You woke up early.”
– “Yes… I’m used to it from the nursing home,” she replied. “I used to work as a nurse taking care of the elderly, and now I still keep the habit of waking up early.”

I was stunned.
It turned out that she was not the type of person I thought – not flirtatious, not looking for anything calculating.

Just a woman who had lived in loneliness, who had taken care of people who were about to leave this world, so she understood what loss was.

From that day on, I began to look at her differently. Not as a “second person”, but as a human being.

I had not opened my heart, but I knew how to listen.
Every night, when I heard my father laugh, I no longer felt pain.

Perhaps, somewhere, my mother also wished for him to be at peace again.

That woman’s name was Priya, 36 years old.
One day, she brought a cup of hot masala tea to my room, put it on the table and said softly:

“I know… it’s not easy for you to accept me. I also had a mother, and saw my father remarry. I don’t want to replace anyone. I just want to keep this house a little warmer.”

I was speechless.
That sentence – as light as the wind, but like a key that opened a door in my heart.
Priya didn’t need anyone’s pity. She just lived quietly – as if she was walking step by step on thorny land, but still kept the gentleness in her heart.

That Diwali, for the first time in many years, all three of us returned home.

The house was brightly lit by oil lamps.
My father sat on a rattan chair, his hair grayer, but his eyes were gentler than before.

Priya brought out a tray of fragrant ladoos and samosas.
I was surprised – the taste was exactly like the one my mother used to make every festival season.

I looked at her, she smiled:

– “You told me how she made it. I tried forever to get the right flavor.”

I turned to look at my father.
He didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly.
I understood — he had never forgotten my mother.
It’s just that now, he holds her with gentle memories, not tears.

From that day on, the house gradually changed.
My eldest sister – who used to be the coldest – now also sat and talked with Priya.
My younger brother – from Bangalore – often called to ask for recipes.
As for me, I started staying longer after meals.

One afternoon, I went out to the garden to help Priya prune the roses.

I asked:

– “Do you feel lonely living here?”

She looked at me, smiling thinly like smoke:

– “Yes. But not because I was shunned… but because I was afraid I would never be accepted.”

I looked at her for a long time.
Then softly said:

– “I think… my mother would not hate you.”

She paused. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she still smiled.

A year later, on the anniversary of her mother’s death, I saw Priya standing silently in front of the altar, her hands trembling as she lit incense.

As I approached, she said softly:

“I ask your permission… to take care of him for the rest of my life.
I don’t ask to be a mother… I just ask to be the one who keeps this house warm.”

Those words – simple, sincere – were like an oath that didn’t need to be witnessed.
And from then on, the person who was once a “stranger” stayed for a long time,
like a small lamp burning through the long, cold Delhi nights.
Not bright – just warm.
Like the breath of tolerance.