The day I signed the divorce papers in New Delhi, I thought I had ended everything. After six years of adultery, my ex-husband—Rohan Malhotra—left me for another woman, leaving me to raise our child alone. I struggled to play both mother and father in a small rented room in Lajpat Nagar, sacrificing every drop of sweat for every carton of milk and every set of clothes for my son, Aarav.

But one afternoon, he suddenly appeared at my door, still looking like a successful man from Gurugram Cyber ​​City, only his eyes were different: cold and calculating. He smiled faintly:

— “I’m back. My son must take after his father. You can’t raise him.”

I was stunned. So much anger stuck in my throat. Did he know that, over the years, who had stayed up all night when my child had a fever? Who had skipped meals to breastfeed him? Who had protested the criticism of “leaving her husband and raising a child alone”?

But he didn’t stop there. He showed me a lawyer’s file, his voice calm:

— “People say a woman is nothing without a man. Ishita Kapoor—who is with me—can’t give birth to a child. Therefore, to carry on the Malhotra family lineage, the child must be returned. The Family Court of Patiala House Court, New Delhi, will favor me, because my financial situation is better than yours.”

My ears were ringing, my eyes filled with tears. It turned out that after six years of adultery, I had returned not because of the child, or even because of old feelings—but simply because of a child to compensate for my lover’s misfortune.

I stood up, took Aarav’s hand, and he glared at the two adults:

— “You’re wrong. The child isn’t a bargaining chip. Where have you been for the last six years? Who raised him? If you want to take him away, go to court. I’d rather die than let someone take him away from me.”

That night, I hugged my baby and fell asleep with tears in my eyes. Outside, a fierce legal battle awaited—between an exhausted mother determined to keep her child, and a father suddenly reminded of his responsibilities because his girlfriend was infertile.

And I knew this wasn’t just about child custody—it was also about saving the honor of the woman who had been betrayed.

On the day of the court hearing, Rohan walked into the Family Court (Patiala House Court) with a confident face, a clean suit, and Ishita holding his hand. He sat down, half-smiling as if convinced he was victorious.

His lawyer presented several documents: salary slips from a multinational company in Gurugram, a savings account, a luxurious apartment in DLF Phase 5, a car… and concluded:
“My client has all the financial means to provide a good future for the child. Meanwhile, the plaintiff is a single woman whose average income is not enough to ensure an ideal living environment for the child.”

The entire courtroom erupted in murmurs. Ishita looked at me, her eyes filled with triumph.

I trembled, but then gathered courage and stood up. I showed the documents I’d been quietly preparing for weeks: Aarav’s salary slip, his eligibility certificate from Delhi Public School (R.K. Puram), his admission certificate from AIIMS Delhi, as well as notarized affidavits from neighbors, class teachers, and the Resident Welfare Association (RWA) confirming that I had raised my child alone.

My voice was choked but firm:

— “Sir, where was this man for the last six years? When my child had a 40-degree fever and had to be rushed to the emergency room in the middle of the night, who picked him up and ran? Who stayed up all night to comfort me when my friends teased me for ‘not having a father’? Now he’s back, not because he loves me, but because his infertile lover needs a child. My child is not a compensation for their shortcomings.”

The atmosphere in the room suddenly fell silent. The judge looked at Rohan and asked:

— “Can you prove that in the past six years you have cared for a father, visited anyone, or fulfilled any responsibilities?”

He stammered, beads of sweat beading on his forehead. Ishita, sitting next to him, gently squeezed his hand, but it still wasn’t enough to save him.

Finally, the court announced: I have custody of the child.

Rohan collapsed on the chair, and Ishita stormed out in anger. As for me, I held Aarav in my arms, tears welling up, but my heart soaring.

I know life is still full of storms, but at least I’ve preserved my most precious possession—not just my child, but also the pride of a steadfast Indian mother.

When Darkness Falls

The night after the verdict, a light rain falls in Lajpat Nagar. Aarav and I sit on the veranda, mother and son holding cups of hot milk, listening to the bus stop. My son rests his head on my shoulder and whispers:
— “Mom, can we sleep now without fear that someone will take me away?”

I hug him tighter. “Yes, go to sleep. I’m here.”

But the darkness, as always, never fully lifts. The next morning, a thick, red-stamped letter lies under the door: an appeal. Rohan Malhotra has filed a petition in the Delhi High Court, seeking a review of the child’s custody and visitation rights. In the letter, he writes in cold, harsh words: “The mother is having a negative influence, alienating the child from the father.”

I place the letter on the table, my hands trembling. Then I quietly call lawyer Sanya Rao, who has been with me since day one. Her voice is calm:
— “Don’t worry. The court is in the child’s best interest. We will make arrangements. And if visitation is to happen, I will request supervised visitation at the court’s counseling center.”

The next week, Aarav and I went to the Family Court Counseling Center near Patiala House. The room was large, with light-colored stains on the walls and a few shelves of books and toys. Other mothers and children sat scattered around; every floor had a scar that was hard to fill. The door opened, and Rohan came in with Ishita Kapoor. She held a large gift box, its wrapping paper glistening; Ishita had a knife-thin smile on her face.

The counselor sat in the middle, her voice soft:
— “Today is the first meeting. Our goal is to make Aarav feel safe.”

Rohan placed the gift box in front of his son:
— “Papa bought you the latest video game console. When you come home, you’ll have your own room, a bed with a racing car—”

Aarav looked at the gift, then at me. He reached out and tugged at the hem of my shirt and shook his head slightly. The girl turned to Rohan and asked very softly:
— “Where was Papa when I had the breathing tube inserted at AIIMS, Delhi?”

The room was quiet. Rohan was stunned for a moment, but quickly regained his composure:
— “Papa… I was busy with work. But from now on—”
— “When my friend teased me, ‘No, Papa,’ who will stay with me until morning?”
Aarav’s voice wasn’t harsh, as if counting the long nights. Ishita held Rohan’s hand under the table, her nails digging lightly. The counselor was taking notes, her eyes serious.

The meeting ended ahead of schedule. Aarav asked to go out for a drink. As we walked down the corridor, he grabbed my hand:
— “I don’t hate you, Papa. But I’m scared.”
— “Fear is a real emotion. Just say it, I’ll listen.” I replied.

For the next few days, Rohan remained ruthless. He posted on social media, suggesting that I was “mentally poisoning my child.” Some old friends called and asked questions, others quietly unfriended me. That night, I took a tray of tea to Aunty Sharma’s house—the white-haired woman who lived at the end of the street, who had held Aarav in her lap since he was in diapers. After listening, she sighed:
—”Daughter, people want to hide the truth by making noise. Just do the right thing. I’ll talk to the RWA (Resident Welfare Association) so everyone knows what’s going on. As for the internet, I’ll take care of that.”

The next morning, a sign on the RWA’s noticeboard read: “Help for single-parent families—Free counseling in the hall on Wednesday evenings.” As I passed by, two of my neighbors smiled and nodded. Slight, warm smiles.

The hearing in the Delhi High Court took place on a sunny day. Rohan sought unsupervised visitation and a reduction in past support, claiming she had helped through “mental presence.” Hearing this, Sanya Rao pursed her lips slightly.

She brought to court a transcript of the supervised visitation, in which Aarav had expressed his concerns, as well as the counselor’s affidavit: “The child feels insecure living with his father; he needs time and a professional routine, not a sudden change in environment.”

She also brought school fee receipts, hospital bills, and a handwritten letter from the class teacher: “Aarav is well-behaved, but he calms down only when he knows his mother will pick him up in the afternoon.”

The judge asked Rohan directly:
— “Do you have any proof of regular support or visitation for the past six years?”

Rohan rolled his eyes. Ishita looked down, twisting her simple ring. Finally, she replied:
— “I… am busy building my career.”
— “A career doesn’t take away the father’s position, but you have distanced yourself from it.”—— the judge said softly.

The court upheld the mother’s custody, continued supervised visitation according to the schedule suggested by the counseling center, and ordered partial child support for the years of neglect. The hammer struck. Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Outside the courtroom, Ishita suddenly called out to me:
— “Do you have a minute?”

I looked at Sanya; she nodded. Ishita pulled me into a quiet corner, her voice heavy:
— “I… can’t have a child. I thought a child would fill the void, and I could keep him. But that day at the center, when Aarav asked about the breathing tube—I realized I… was wrong. I don’t want to take the child away from you anymore. But Rohan is different.”
— “Different in what way?”
— “On Friday afternoon, he was about to have someone pick Aarav up at the school gate—saying it was an ‘unscheduled visit.’ I overheard him. I… I don’t want anything bad to happen. Tell the school.”

I thanked him, my heart pounding. That evening, I sent a letter to the school and security guard, along with a copy of the decision; only my mother was to be picked up from school, and in all other cases, I was to call Sanya Rao and the head of security. I texted Aarav:
— “If anyone comes to pick you up, run to the principal’s office. Call me immediately.” On Friday afternoon, as if on cue, a man wearing dark glasses appeared at the school gate and showed the guard a photocopied, blurred piece of paper with Rohan’s name on it. The guard called me into the office; I was already standing there with the principal and two other guards. When the man saw me, he turned away. When stopped, he stammered, “It was just a misunderstanding,” and walked away. I collapsed into a chair, cold sweat running down my spine. Aarav came running and hugged me as if he were embracing the sky that had just fallen.

That night, I watched my son sleep, and suddenly understood: the victory in court was just the beginning of a long journey of recovery.

After the school gate incident, Rohan was strangely quiet. No new post, no more applications. But that silence was like the lake before a storm. I focused on my work; the department head in Gurugram offered me a new project. “You can do it. The salary will increase. Diwali is coming soon—let’s light up our house.” I said yes. Aarav was busy drawing pictures of lights and talking about confetti.

One evening, as I was making a paper rangoli on the floor, Ishita came again. She stood at the door, a bag of papers in her hand.

“I’ve just left Rohan’s house,” she said in a heavy voice. “I can’t stand how he addresses children… by titles. Here are the emails and messages he sent to the ‘pick-up’ broker recently. If you want, give them to the lawyer.”

I took the bag, surprised and… filled with pity.

“Thank you.”

Ishita smiled lightly:

“Don’t thank me. I’m just repaying my conscience. Wishing you and Aarav a peaceful Diwali.”

On Diwali night, Lajpat Nagar was glowing like the Milky Way. Aarav and I arranged diyas along the window. She whispered:

“I wish we were safe this year.”

“I wish the same for you.”

Just as I lit the last diya, the phone rang. Sanya Rao:
— “I’ve submitted more evidence regarding the school gate incident. The court has just issued a warning: If Rohan violates the visitation limit, his visitation rights will be suspended. Just like this, live in peace.”
I thanked him as I closed the window. The night air smelled of incense and children’s laughter.
But the night wasn’t quite over yet. Around midnight, I received an unsent email with a single subject line: “I won’t give up.” Inside was a Monday morning Delhi-Dubai flight schedule, the passenger’s name was Rohan Malhotra; along with a photo of a new employment contract. In the corner of the photo, on the window pane, was a silhouette of a man holding a phone—and, very dimly, a second, anonymous flight ticket.

I saw Aarav fast asleep, holding a homemade paper lantern. My heart sank, and I jumped up. If Rohan was planning to leave India to avoid paying alimony, or worse, to devise something last-minute, I couldn’t be careless.

I opened my desk drawer and put all the important documents in a hard cover: the judgment, the warning order, the birth certificate, the school records, the insurance, and the email address Ishita had provided. Then I wrote a note and pasted it on the cover:

“Everything for Aarav’s safety.”
Outside, Diwali firecrackers were bursting in the Delhi sky. In the small room in Lajpat Nagar, I sat next to my son, listening to his every breath. The flames of the small lamps still burned steadily. I knew the storm could return—in a new form, with a new plot. But I also knew that a mother’s love is not a candle that can be easily extinguished.

I touched the file cover and closed my eyes. The third part of this battle could begin at the airport, in the courtroom, or right in front of the school gate. Wherever I was, I was ready—not to win, but to keep my son safe.