My husband is a doctor – Dr. Arnav Mehta. Everyone in our Pune neighborhood praises his kindness and dedication to his profession. As for me, I’ve been feeling frustrated for the past few months.

The reason? Whenever our neighbor – thirty-year-old Pooja, whose husband is away on a business trip – comes to the doctor, Arnav happily examines her for free. Not once, but dozens of times. He says, “I’ll cover the cost of the medicine,” but I have to save every penny to cover my children’s household expenses. I say, “Honey, please be patient. Our family is short on money, and we haven’t even paid our children’s school fees yet.”

He smiled lightly:

“We’re neighbors, why don’t we help each other out a little?”

This sentence felt like a thorn pricking my throat. I started paying closer attention.

One afternoon, Pooja came in for an “urgent checkup” because she had a stomachache. Arnav was carrying his medical bag, and I quietly followed him, pretending to be “going shopping.”

Arnav arrived at his third-floor apartment, the door slightly ajar. I entered and stopped suddenly: Arnav and Pooja were sitting side by side on chairs; his hand was tightly gripping Pooja’s, and his eyes were filled with compassion—a kindness I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Pooja looked up, feigning surprise:
—What are you doing here?

I looked directly at my husband:
—Does one need to hold hands like this when examining a patient?

Arnav awkwardly let go of my hand:
—I’m… just checking your pulse.

I smiled lightly and turned away. Deep down, I realized: you don’t need to look at each other like that to check your pulse, nor do you need to be free for life.

That night, dinner passed in silence. Two days later, I asked a friend who worked at a private clinic in Koregaon Park—where Arnav occasionally worked—to check the patient records. As expected: Pooja’s name was nowhere to be found. Meaning, the “visits” weren’t recorded in the register.

The next afternoon, Pooja called out again:

“Brother, I have a headache, can you come and help me?” I quietly followed. The door was slightly ajar again. This time, I saw Arnav giving Pooja medicine, his eyes so tender that my heart sank.

I stood at the door, speaking so loudly that we both were startled:

“Are you checking your pulse or… your love?”

Arnav jumped up, his face pale. Pooja looked down. On the table was a receipt for a jewelry purchase; payee: Pooja. Payee: Arnav Mehta.

The next morning, the entire society erupted in commotion. I didn’t say anything, but the news spread: “The doctor gives free checkups to neighbors… that’s all.”

Arnav tried to explain: “I didn’t mean anything,” he said, feeling sorry for his lonely neighbor. I simply said:
— I treated her with my son’s money. That’s enough “meaning.”

That night, I went to sleep in another room. In the darkness, Arnav’s sighs echoed—like an irregular heartbeat. But this time, the patient wasn’t Pooja, but our wedding.

The night I went to sleep, the scent of incense still lingered in the house. I stayed awake until almost dawn, and instead of crying, I wrote a letter to Dr. Arnav Mehta and placed it on the dining table. I folded it. In the afternoon, Arnav returned, read it completely, and remained silent for a long time. Then he looked at me:

— I… have no excuses now.

He placed the jewelry bill I’d seen last night, and a new transfer receipt, marked “refund,” on the table. I turned on my phone and saw an email notification from the clinic in Koregaon Park confirming that Arnav had started working on homes in the society. I have stopped seeing patients after hours, and have resumed seeing patients according to the official schedule and procedures.

— I will abide by seven conditions. But before I sign here… — Arnav handed me a stack of papers — …I want to tell the truth. There was no physical contact. There were feelings, there were text messages. I knew this was a betrayal.

She talked about the late-night phone calls, the messages like, “I have a headache,” “I’ll be back for a while”… everything out of the box. She bowed her head:

— You forgot one fundamental thing: the boundaries of your career and the boundaries of your marriage.

I looked straight at her:

— It’s not that you “forgot.” You decided to cross the line.

Arnav nodded. We sat in silence. Only the hissing sound of the pressure cooker in the kitchen reminded us that dinner was still cooking, and we still had to live tomorrow.

The first consultation in Koregaon Park took place in a dimly colored room, filled with the aroma of garam masala tea. The counselor asked:

— What are you most afraid of if you tell your wife the truth?

Arnav replied:
— I’m afraid of losing her. And I’m also afraid of losing myself—of losing the doctor I thought was “good.”

I said:
— I’m afraid I’ll become a jealous woman who no longer knows the meaning of love.

We talked about the night shift, about the feeling of “need” when someone called for help in the middle of the night, and about how he let this feeling overshadow his duty. The counselor said: “Emotional connections break trust before anything else.”

On the fifth day, Arnav wrote a handwritten apology to the children, to me. On the seventh day, money arrived for the children’s school fund—the first significant amount. On the tenth day, he sent me an OTP code so I could manage all my sub-cards together. This didn’t immediately convince me, but it did ease my anger.

On the twelfth day, Pooja messaged me: “Can you meet me?” I chose a small tea stall at the society entrance, where everyone passing by could see—there were no more half-closed doors.

Pooja arrived, still wearing red lipstick, her hair curly. She sat down, twirling a thin bracelet:

— I’m sorry. I’m… alone. My husband is out on a construction project and hasn’t returned. I’ve had panic attacks several times, and the doctor said I need someone with me. Arnav…

— …my husband. — I interrupted gently but firmly. — I need a doctor, the clinic is full. I need friends, the society’s women’s group is full. But I can’t need someone else’s husband.

Pooja’s eyes blinked. I placed a piece of paper on the table: “House rules: No home visits except in case of a society emergency.” The management seal was still wet.

— From now on, book all medical appointments at the Koregaon Park clinic. Nurses and procedures are available there. And if you need to talk, I can connect you with a therapy group. I have a child and a home. I will protect them both.

Pooja bit her lip. She didn’t argue, just bowed her head. When I stood up, I realized my hands were no longer shaking.

On the twentieth day, Arnav and I went to the Rotary Medical Camp on the outskirts of Pune. I said:

— You want to do it for free? Do it here. There’s a board, a ledger, witnesses. No “neighbors.”

Arnav rolled up his sleeves and measured everyone’s blood pressure. It had been a long time since I’d seen his professional eyes clear and without the glint I’d seen at Pooja’s house.

When we arrived home that evening, he placed a key in front of me:

— The key to the filing cabinet and safe. “No need to explain later.” You can always look at it.

I didn’t open it. I just shook my head.

On the 27th day, it was raining heavily. My phone rang—an unknown number. A man spoke wearily:

— This is Sanjay, Pooja’s husband. I just returned from Pune. I’ve… heard some stories. I’m grateful to the doctor for helping Pooja recover from her panic attacks. But we’re going to Nashik. Sorry to bother you and your husband.

I was silent for a moment, then replied:
— Thank you for calling. I hope you both find the right way to stay or leave.

I hung up. The rain was getting heavier outside on the veranda. I suddenly felt easier to breathe.

Day 30, last consultation of the month. The specialist asked:

— What do you need to move forward?

I looked at Arnav:

— I don’t need an angel in a white coat. I need a husband who is afraid of losing his wife. And understands that “saving people” doesn’t allow him to break trust at home.

Arnav nodded, his eyes red:

— I’m scared. And I want to fix it.

Back home, I opened the closet, took out the letter I’d written the night before—seven conditions—then took out a pen, underlined the sixth: “Check-in in 30 days.” I added one more line:

A 60-day extension. Not to give him a chance to do it again, but to teach me to look at him without remembering him, behind a half-closed door.

Arnav exhaled. He made masala tea and poured it for me. I took a sip, the spicy ginger flavor wafting into my nose, warming my chest.

That night, in front of the prayer corner, I lit incense sticks. Not to pray for “forgetting,” but to pray for clarity. When I turned back, I saw Arnav open his laptop, filling out the registration form for the National Medical Commission’s ethics training course. He showed me the confirmation email and, with a wry smile, said:

— I’m starting anew, like a first-year resident.

I didn’t say “sorry.” I didn’t say “goodbye.” We sat next to each other, not holding hands, but not turning away either.

Outside, the Pune rain had stopped. Inside, the wall clock ticked relentlessly, like a heartbeat returning to its orbit. I knew there would still be restless nights, still questions I wouldn’t dare ask until the end. But unlike before, this time I have a choice, you have a limit, and we have a deadline.

60 more days—to see if the doctor in you can save the most important patient of your life, this marriage.