I’m Aarohi Sharma, 27 years old.
My husband – Raghav – and I have been married for over a year.
There’s not much noise in our marriage, not much arguing, but there’s not much love either.

Raghav is a calm, cool person, and my mother-in-law – Savitri Devi – is extremely strict.
She wants to control everything, from food and drink to clothing to the children.

Two months ago, I found out I was pregnant.

This was the joy I’d been waiting for for almost a year.

Holding the ultrasound paper in hand, I burst into tears of joy.

But when I told him the news, Raghav simply said coldly:

“Hmm… okay.”

No hug, no smile, no questions – just expressionless eyes and a hand clutching the phone tightly.

I was disappointed, but still I told myself that men are often less emotional.

When she learned I was going for a pregnancy test, my mother-in-law insisted on accompanying me.

She said coldly:

“We have to see if the baby in my womb is healthy. These days, weak daughters-in-law always give birth to daughters, causing hardship to their husbands’ families.”

I smiled awkwardly, unable to muster the courage to respond.

Since becoming a daughter-in-law, I’ve grown accustomed to patience.

At the private clinic in Jaipur, the doctor asked Savitri to wait outside for further testing.

As soon as the door closed, a young nurse approached me, looking worried.

“Madam, are you Raghav Sharma’s wife?”

I was shocked:

“Yes… how do you know?”

She looked toward the door, her voice trembling:

“I advise you… leave him. You’re in danger.”

I was stunned:

“What are you saying?”

She simply shook her head, her eyes glistening with fear:

“I can’t say much, but he’s not a good person. Be careful.”

She finished speaking and quickly turned away, as if afraid she might be overheard.

On the way home, my mother-in-law happily looked at the ultrasound and muttered:

“I hope this grandson is healthy.”

Her words were like needles piercing my heart.

That night, I stared at Raghav for a long time, trying to find a trace of worry in his eyes.

But he was still indifferent, silently looking at his phone, not bothering to ask if I had eaten.

My heart filled with doubt.

One night, Raghav left his phone on the table and went to sleep.

The screen flashed—a message from someone named Meera:

“Don’t worry, today’s results are fine. I’m pregnant.”

I was stunned.

My whole body trembled, my heart ached.

I opened it to read more, and the rest of the message made me faint:

“I just have to give birth, then get a DNA test done.”

“Your baby is my biological child.”

It was as if my whole world collapsed before my eyes.

Now I understood why she was so cold, why my mother-in-law always wanted to accompany me to the doctor—she just wanted to make sure the child growing in my womb was his.

The next morning, I returned to the clinic, looking for the nurse from the previous day.

She looked at me, tears streaming down her face:

“I’m sorry… but you should know. He brought another girl here—he said she was his wife. They had the doctor next door take a pregnancy test. She was over a month pregnant.”

My heart felt like it was slammed shut.

I thanked her and quietly left.

I wandered the crowded streets of Jaipur, feeling lonely among thousands of people.

I had only one thought: I and my child had to go.

That afternoon, when I returned, Mrs. Savitri was sitting in the living room, looking at me suspiciously:

“Where were you? Raghav said he would take me out to dinner with his partner tonight, and I would cook at home.”

I looked her straight in the eyes:

“I won’t cook anymore, Mom.

From tomorrow, I’ll go somewhere else.”

She was stunned:

“What?”

I took my phone out of my pocket and showed her screenshots of the messages between Raghav and Meera.

She trembled, her face pale, her lips trembling, and she couldn’t speak.

I said softly:

“I can’t live in a house that looks down on me like this.” All I want is for my baby to be born in peace – even if he’s alone.”

I turned away, leaving a deep silence.

That night, I rented a small room near the hospital.

The nurse – Priya – came to visit with milk and nutritious porridge.

She took my hand:

“You’re so strong, Aarohi. The baby will be proud to have a mother like you.”

I hugged her, tears streaming down my face.

Outside, it started raining in Jaipur.

I looked up and took a deep breath.

Perhaps Priya was right – sometimes, leaving home isn’t a sign of weakness, but the only way to save yourself and your child.

Months later, I gave birth to a baby girl.

I named her Asha – which means “hope.”

I worked every day at the small bookstore near the hospital, and Asha grew up healthy, calling me “Mom.”

As for Raghav and his mother, I never heard any more.

People said Meera had cheated on him, and the child wasn’t his.

But to me, that didn’t matter anymore.

I had hope – and I had freedom.

Ten years had passed since Aarohi Sharma left her mother-in-law’s house in Jaipur with her little daughter and started a new life in a small rented room near the hospital.

Now, she is 37 years old and the manager of a large bookstore in Pune.

And her daughter – Asha Sharma – is 10 years old, agile, smart, and with a bright smile, just like her mother.

Aarohi raised her daughter with love and self-respect. She never mentioned Raghav – Asha’s biological father – but simply said:

“Your father is far away. But because of him, I have you – the most beautiful thing in my life.”

For Asha, her mother is her entire world.

Asha is very good at studies. She loves reading and reciting poems, and dreams of becoming a doctor so that she can “help people who are tired like my mother.”

Every morning, Aarohi would ride her bicycle to take her daughter to school.

On the way, mother and child laughed and talked, their hearts filled with the joys of a simple and peaceful life.

If it hadn’t been for a business conference in Pune that summer—where Raghav Sharma had come—everything would have been calm.

Raghav, now a successful businessman, had gray hair and a sterner face.

After years of broken relationships, Meera—the woman who had betrayed him—left him empty and remorseful.

He searched for Aarohi for years, but found no news.

When his company opened a branch in Pune, he accidentally overheard an employee talking about Aarohi at the “bookstore near the center.”

One afternoon, he went looking for her.

The bookstore was still crowded.

Near the cashier, a girl in her school uniform, her hair braided, was helping a customer pack her books. Her voice was clear:

“Mom, I’m done!”

Raghav turned his head.

Aarohi came out from behind, smiling softly at her daughter – a smile so familiar to him that it made his heart ache.

He paused.

“Aarohi…”

She froze.
Their eyes met – ten years of separation melted away in an instant.

That day, Raghav didn’t dare approach.

He just stood at a distance, watching her and her mother go home.

That night, he sat by the hotel window the entire time, the streetlights falling on his tear-stained face.

The next morning, he sent a letter to the bookstore:

“I’m not apologizing.

I just want to see my daughter once – even if from a distance.”

Aarohi read the letter, remaining silent for a long time.

She remembered those years of loneliness, the nights when tears would wet her pillow, and the image of the child growing in her womb with resentment.

But then she looked at Asha – a little girl with sparkling eyes and an innocent smile – and her heart melted.

“Asha has the right to know who her father is.”

That afternoon, Aarohi took Asha to a small café near the park.

Raghav was already seated, a hot cup in his hand.

He stood up when he saw the mother and daughter enter.

Asha looked at the stranger with teary eyes, surprised:

“Mom, who is this man?”

Aarohi replied softly:

“This is my father, Asha.”

The air was thick.

Raghav bowed and said, his voice choked:

“Papa… I’m sorry for hurting you and Mom. Papa… I was wrong.”

Asha looked at her mother, then back at him, her innocent voice:

“Papa, don’t cry. Mom said that if someone knows their mistakes and corrects them, they are a good person.”

Raghav knelt down and embraced his daughter.

In that moment, it was as if years of grief were forgotten.

In the days to come, Raghav often dropped Asha off at school and helped her with her homework.

Aarohi didn’t stop him, but kept her distance.

She understood that forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting, but moving on from the hurt.

Once, when Asha asked:

“Mom, can Dad come back to our house?”
Aarohi gently stroked her head:

“No, baby. Mom and Dad both have their own homes. But you can love them both, because that’s what makes your heart grow.”

Raghav heard this and burst into tears.

He knew Aarohi had forgiven him—not with words, but with the calm demeanor of a strong mother.

Three years later, Asha passed the entrance exam to medical school in Delhi—a dream she’d talked about since childhood.

On admission day, Raghav and Aarohi took their child to school together.

At the school gate, Asha took their hands and smiled:

“Without Mom and Dad, I wouldn’t be here today.

Mom, thank you for teaching me to love.

Dad, thank you for teaching me to repent.”

She hugged them tightly, then ran across the school grounds, the sun shining like a bright silk ribbon on her long hair.

Aarohi and Raghav stood together.

After many years, there was no resentment between them, just the peace of two people who had been through a storm.

“Thank you,” Raghav said softly.

“For not teaching me to hate you.”

Aarohi smiled:

“I can’t teach my child to hate anyone, because hatred can never make her happy.

Asha needs a clean heart, not a burdened past.”

Years later, Asha became a pediatrician.

She often told single mothers:

“My mother taught me: A strong woman is not one who never cries, but one who knows how to stand up even after crying.”

On Asha’s desk are two photo frames:

One is a picture of her mother, and the other is a smiling picture of her father.

He never erased the past, he just decided to put it in its proper place – behind, but still in his heart.