Sunday afternoon was unplanned.
That's what made it different.
Aarav had stepped out for an urgent meeting, promising to be back in two hours. Anaya stayed home, enjoying the rare quiet — soft music playing, sunlight spilling across the living room floor.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She hesitated… then answered.
"Hello?"
"Anaya?"
It was Aarav's mother.
Her spine straightened automatically.
"Yes, aunty."
A pause.
"Are you free right now?"
Thirty minutes later, Anaya stood at the door of their house.
Not invited for dinner.
Not a formal gathering.
Just… a visit.
His mother opened the door herself.
No staff.
No announcement.
Just her.
"You came quickly," she noted.
"I didn't want you to wait."
A small nod.
"Come in."
The house felt different without the evening formality.
No arranged table. No structured conversation.
Just afternoon light and quiet rooms.
"Sit," his mother said, gesturing toward the living area.
Anaya sat, posture polite but not stiff.
There was no immediate topic.
And strangely… that made it more real.
After a few moments, his mother spoke.
"Aarav has always been… self-contained."
Anaya listened carefully.
"He doesn't bring people home easily."
"I know," she replied gently.
"And yet he looks different these days."
Anaya didn't rush to answer.
"Different how?" she asked softly.
"Less guarded."
That made her chest tighten.
His mother studied her.
"I wanted to see something for myself."
Anaya met her gaze calmly. "What?"
"Whether that change is sustainable."
It wasn't hostility.
It was concern.
For her son.
Anaya folded her hands loosely in her lap.
"I can't promise permanence," she said honestly. "No one can."
His mother's eyes sharpened slightly.
"But I can promise intention."
Silence stretched.
"I didn't marry him to change him," Anaya continued quietly. "I married him to understand him."
Something in that sentence lingered in the air.
Unexpectedly, his mother stood.
"Come with me."
She led Anaya down the hallway — past family photos, past memories framed in polished wood — into a small study room.
There, on a shelf, sat an old photo album.
She picked it up and handed it over.
"Do you know," she said, "he refused to smile in pictures from the age of ten to sixteen?"
Anaya blinked. "Refused?"
"Completely."
She opened the album.
And there he was.
Younger.
Serious.
Eyes sharp, guarded even then.
No softness.
His mother watched Anaya carefully.
Most people would comment on how cute he looked.
Or laugh.
Anaya didn't.
Instead, she traced one photo lightly with her finger.
"He looks like he was carrying too much," she murmured.
That made his mother still.
"He always felt responsible," she said quietly.
"For everyone."
Anaya nodded.
"He still does."
Their eyes met.
And for the first time…
They weren't on opposite sides of the table.
They were simply two women who cared about the same man.
"I don't need him to carry everything alone," Anaya said softly. "But I won't take that strength away from him either."
His mother exhaled slowly.
"You speak carefully."
"I mean carefully."
A pause.
Then, almost unexpectedly—
"You can call me Ma."
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't emotional.
It was quiet.
But it was acceptance.
When Aarav returned home later that evening, he found Anaya sitting on the couch, looking thoughtful.
"You disappeared," he said lightly.
She looked up.
"I went to see Ma."
He froze.
"You what?"
"She called."
His expression shifted from confusion… to concern.
"What happened?"
She stood, walked over to him slowly.
"Nothing dramatic," she said gently. "We looked at your childhood photos."
His brows furrowed. "Why?"
"She wanted to know if I understood who you've always been."
"And?"
Anaya stepped closer, placing her hand over his heart.
"I do."
He studied her face carefully.
"And she?"
"She told me to call her Ma."
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then something softened in his eyes — something deeply relieved.
"She doesn't offer that easily," he said quietly.
"I know."
That night felt different.
Not intense.
Not passionate.
Just safe.
As if something external had finally loosened its grip.
As if the world outside their room was no longer quietly testing them.
And somewhere, in another house across the city, a mother closed an old photo album and allowed herself a small, approving smile.