The wife gave birth to a son, and the husband brought his mistress home and asked for marriage—three months later, the husband had to kneel down and apologize.
The wife had just given birth to a son, and the husband brought his mistress home to apologize—three months later, the husband had to kneel down and apologize.
It was a drizzly afternoon in New Delhi, the first heavy monsoon drops pattering on the glass door of her room at Sir Ganga Ram Hospital. Inside, Vani lay on her side, the pain of a cesarean delivery still lingering. She had just undergone a cesarean section to welcome her first son—a journey she herself described as “the labor pains of a person who thought they had lost hope.”

For the past six years, Vani and her husband, Karan, had sought treatment for infertility everywhere: from Ayurveda, homeopathy, traditional Chinese medicine to Western medicine; even folk remedies from the aunties in Lajpat Nagar market—they hadn’t given up on anything. There was a time when she thought she would never become a mother. Then, just as she was ready to accept reality, good news arrived like a miracle.
Vani was pregnant.

During her pregnancy, she thoroughly enjoyed every khichdi, every sleep. Despite her poor health, she prepared everything for her child: every baby towel, a small crib, even a list of Indian names according to the constellations.

She thought that after all her efforts, this would be a turning point in bringing the family closer. But she was wrong.

Three days after the surgery, before the stitches were removed, Karan appeared—no flowers, no hot porridge, but next to him… was a strange woman.

Vani was stunned.

Before she could understand what was happening, Karan placed a piece of paper on the bedside table: a completed divorce form. Next to it was a thin envelope.

—Sign this. I’ll give you ₹20,000. Consider supporting his move.

—What…did you say?—Vani whispered, her voice choked.

—Enough now. I don’t love you anymore. Keep the child with you. I don’t want to live a life of helplessness anymore.

The other woman stood there, smiling faintly as if watching a drama. Her mother-in-law sat quietly by the side of the bed, her eyes staring into the void as if unwilling to interfere.

At that moment, Vani’s world seemed to collapse.

No one came to her rescue. No one spoke. No one asked how she was feeling.

She sat there, her arms weakly clutching the sleeping child, her heart numb as if she had just fallen into a pit.

But instead of crying or pleading, Vani asked just one question…
— Do you want me to go now… right now?

Karan nodded, avoiding her gaze.

Despite the pain of the incision and the swelling of her breasts, Vani struggled to get up. She wrapped her baby in a thin towel, picked up her old bag, and walked out of the hospital—without even saying goodbye.

No one stopped her. No one saw her off.

The tiny PG (lodging house) room in a Karol Bagh alley had a tin roof that creaked in the wind and rain. Vani had rented it with the little money she had left after the hospital bill and the baby’s essentials.

She would make her own postpartum porridge on the electric stove, wash her own diapers, mix milk, and rock her baby amid the sounds of auto-rickshaws and car horns. On nights when her baby had a fever, she would stay up all night, monitoring his every breath. When she felt restless, she would endure it through gritted teeth, unable to muster the courage to cry out loud for fear of startling him.

During the day, after her baby fell asleep, she would turn on her old phone and accept some architectural design assignments online—a hobby she had given up after marriage.

At night, in the flickering yellow light, her hands trembled as she drew each line. Not because she was tired, but from pain—both physical and mental.

But she didn’t let herself fall.

The first month, she earned a few lakh rupees. The second month, thanks to a referral from an old client, she landed a drawing for a garden house in Gurgaon. From then on, small orders slowly began to pile up.

No one knew that behind these meticulous drawings was a single mother, working through the night with her child. She operated from a small rented room, a second-hand laptop, and a will that refused to give up.

Sometimes she remembered her ex-husband’s cold eyes, and she felt that her heart no longer ached like before—only emptiness and peace.

Three years passed.

Vani rented a studio apartment in Dwarka, with sunlight streaming in through the windows. Her son—Vihaan—could sift rice himself, read alphabets, and often said:

— When I grow up, I’ll protect you like the superhero Krrish!

One weekend afternoon, they were both watering the money plant on the balcony when Karan suddenly appeared.

He was thin, his shirt faded, standing awkwardly in front of the door.

— I just… want to meet you for a while.

Vihaan looked at her strangely, turned and asked

— Mom, who is this boy?

Vani came closer and gently placed a hand on her shoulder:

— He’s an old acquaintance of yours. But now, I don’t need to know.

Karan lowered his head, unable to muster the courage to look at her. He turned silently. His eyes were red on the stairs.

That night, Vani wrote in her diary:

“The day you left, I felt I had lost everything. Then I realized: those who are not true, sooner or later, leave.

As for you, you are the most precious gift of life I have received.”

Vani closed her notebook and turned off the light. Outside, the Delhi rain was still drizzling. In the small room, Vihaan was fast asleep, hugging his mother tightly. And in the ray of light coming through the curtains, Vani knew that the sun between mother and daughter was slowly rising, in her own hands that refused to let go.

Part 2: When the Past Knocks

Three days after their unexpected meeting, the doorbell rang at the Dwarka apartment. Vani had just fed Vihaan dinner. Opening the door, she found an envelope – a summons from the Delhi Family Court.

Karan had filed a petition for the right to meet his son.

Vani was stunned. Not because she feared losing Vihaan, but because she knew that going to court would expose her painful past to everyone. But she had no choice. She had to face it.

First Session

The Saket Family Court was packed. Vani was wearing a simple beige saree and holding Vihaan tightly in her arms. On the other side, Karan arrived with a young lawyer, his face calm but his eyes troubled.

The judge asked:

— Mr. Karan, you haven’t taken care of or visited your son for the past three years, and now you’re suddenly demanding visitation rights?

Karan bowed his head, his voice hoarse:

— I was wrong. I was trapped in a wrong relationship. Now I want to be a true father. I’m not asking for custody of the child, I just want to see my child.

The room erupted in commotion. Vani sat quietly, her hand on Vihaan’s shoulder. Now it was her turn to stand up:

— Honorable Judge, when I gave birth to the child via cesarean, he brought divorce papers from another woman. When I took the child from the hospital, he didn’t even give me a bottle of milk. For the past three years, I’ve earned all the money to raise the child myself. Now he says he regrets it, but for me, it’s not just a wound—it’s a betrayal. I don’t prevent Vihaan from knowing his father, but I don’t want him to suffer again.

The judge looked at the file and thought:

— The court will consider this. Children need the love of both parents, but they also need protection. The decision will be made at the next hearing.

The night after the trial

In the apartment, Vihaan asked anxiously:

— Mom, I saw him today. Is he my father?

Vani’s voice choked. She knew this day would surely come. She stroked her son’s hair:

— Yes, she gave birth to you. But remember, son, a father is not just by blood, but also by heart. And you just have to have faith: I’m always here.

Vihaan thought, then hugged his mother and whispered:

— I only need you.

Vani’s tears welled up, warming her son’s shoulder.

Turning Point
The next month, the final hearing took place. Vani’s lawyer presented all the evidence: the divorce certificate with the date of birth, the envelope containing 20,000 rupees, and the testimony of the doctor and nurse. Karan was silent, his face pale. The woman accompanying him suddenly appeared in the hallway and gave him a cold look before leaving.

Finally, the court ruled: Karan can visit his child in the observation center for only two hours a month and cannot interfere in Vihaan’s life. The child’s custody remains solely Vani’s.

Karan burst into tears, but it was too late.
Vani of the New Age

A year later, a small studio called “Vani Designs” officially opened in Connaught Place. From a single mother working in a rented room, she now has a group of young architects working under her wing. A photo of mother and son smiling in the sunshine hangs on the wall, with a caption in the corner:

“From pain comes strength.”

Vihaan, now 7, is still “Superhero Krrish” to his mother. Whenever anyone asks about his father, he simply smiles:

— You are my father, you are my mother, you are my whole world.

Epilogue

Late at night, Vani wrote in her diary:

“The day he came to the hospital room with the divorce papers, I felt like the world had ended. But in reality, that was the beginning of my journey to find myself.

If Vihaan asks me someday, I’ll tell him: Your father was lost. But thanks to him, I learned that when a woman stands up for her child, no one can take away her strength.”

Vani closed her notebook and turned on the nightlight. The cool Delhi breeze was blowing outside. In the room, mother and child were wrapped tightly in a blanket, calm as if no storm had ever passed.