16. Home

Shaurya’s POV

The drive was quiet. Not the comfortable kind—this was the silence that wrapped around your chest and held tight.

No one said a word.

When we finally pulled up in front of the mansion, the engine shut off, but the stillness lingered.

Siya stepped out and moved around to open the door for her. She didn’t look up. Her fingers twitched, betraying nerves, and her eyes stayed pinned to the floor like she was bracing herself for another blow.

Siya gently reached out and took her hand, squeezing it once—firm, steady, silent. It was her way of saying: You’re safe now.

That’s when she finally looked up.

Our home stood the way it always had—calm, grand, but never imposing. The front garden was blooming as always, the kind my mom nurtured like a child. She always said flowers kept the air fresh and hearts light.

And standing at the door, arms folded and eyes glowing with anticipation, was her—Meera Singh Rathore.

My mother.

But not just mine.

She was ours—Siya’s, Veer’s, Ryan’s.

When Veer lost his mom too young, and Ryan... Well, Ryan never had one to begin with —Mom took them in like it was the most natural thing in the world. No grand declarations, no sympathy speeches. Just... love. And they never questioned it. Because she made them feel what “maa” actually means.

And now, she was ready to do it again.

To love again.

As we approached, she instantly grabbed a string of chillies —her trusted old ritual to ward off evil.
She circled it around us with practiced ease, whispering something under her breath. Protection. Blessing. Fierce love.

Then her eyes fell on the girl.

No—not girl.

Lotus, my heart corrected.

Mom’s gaze softened like melted snow. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Kitni pyaari hai,” she said, pulling her into a hug.
(She's so lovely.)

For a split second, I thought this would be the moment she broke down. That the dam would burst and everything she had locked away would come pouring out.

But she didn’t cry.

She stiffened instead, her body frozen in my mother’s arms.

My eyes scanned the yard instinctively.

Where’s Dad?

Then I spotted him—Rajveer Singh Rathore.

My father.

He stood a little distance away, hands tucked behind his back, watching quietly. He didn’t approach. He didn’t want to startle her.

He’s the gentlest man I know. But even gentleness can overwhelm someone who’s been broken too many times.

So he waited. Because he understands.

He always understands.

Most fathers teach their sons to toughen up. “Ladke rote nahi,” they say.
(Boys don't cry)

But mine?

“Cry if you need to,” he’d say. “Just don’t cry in front of the wrong people.”

“This world doesn’t need more angry men, Shaurya. It needs men brave enough to feel—and strong enough to stay still when someone else is falling apart.”

He smiled at me now, and I saw it—the flicker of pain in his eyes.

For him, today was like watching an old wound bleed again.

Meanwhile, Mom had already taken Lotus’s hand and was leading her inside.

“Tum dono ko bhi andar aana hai toh aajao… Kisi ne roka nahi hai,” she called over her shoulder.
("If you both want to come inside, then come… No one’s stopping you.")

Siya and I exchanged a look of mock betrayal.

Typical.

We’re her actual kids—and still treated like extras in her emotional drama.

Inside, the dining table looked like it had been raided by every Indian festival in existence. There were dishes I hadn’t seen since Diwali, and some I wasn’t even sure we remembered the names of.

“Yeh sab kis ke liye? Koi aur bhi aane wala hai kya?” I joked.
("All this is for whom? Is someone else coming too?")

Mom looked scandalised. “Nahi! Aaj meri bachi pehli baar ghar aayi hai. Sab uske liye banaya hai. Jo pasand hoga, wohi khayegi. Tum dono toh roz wahi daal-chawal khilate hoge!”
("No! Today my daughter has come home for the first time. Everything is made for her. She’ll eat only what she likes. You two must be feeding her the same old dal and rice every day!")

She handed two tiffins to a servant—one for Veer, one for Ryan.

We always told her to rest, let the staff handle things. She never listened. Cooking is love, she said.
Feeding is healing.

And today, she was healing someone new.

She sat beside Lotus now, talking to her like they’d known each other for years. Siya sat on the other side, their voices forming a soft cocoon around her.

Then Mom looked up and called, “Why are you standing there, Rajveer? Aao, sit!”

Dad walked over, measured and gentle, and sat down—carefully leaving space between them.

“Hello, beta,” he said quietly.

Lotus only gave a small nod. But it was something.

Mom beamed. “He is my husband. And father to these two idiots.”

Dad chuckled. I just rolled my eyes.

Then Mom did what she does best—picked up Lotus’s plate and said, “Aaj main khilaungi.”
(Today I will feed you)

She started feeding her with her own hands, lovingly, patiently, like every mother in this country has done for centuries.

We all watched in silence.

Somewhere in between the bites, I saw Lotus glance up—not fearfully, not distrustfully.

Just… curious.

Hopeful.

Mom gently placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her through the hallway. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just… with the quiet ard when she knew someone needed more love than words.

She stopped in front of a soft pink door with tiny bells hanging on its handle—her signature wind chime.

“This is yours now,” she said softly.

As the door opened, the scent of sandalwood met us.

The room wasn’t large. The walls were a calming cream, with one accent wall covered in floral wallpaper, warm and soft.
A queen-sized bed sat by the window, dressed in fresh white sheets, and a blush-colored comforter. The pillows looked cloud-soft, untouched.

To the side, a small wooden desk stood by the balcony, with an armchair and a folded throw blanket resting on it—like an invitation to sit,breathe, exist.

The balcony doors were slightly open, letting in a quiet breeze that swayed the lavender curtains.
From there, you could see the garden—Mom’s pride and joy. It was full of marigolds and jasmine, and I knew in the mornings, the light would flood this room like a quiet blessing.

Bookshelves lined the far wall—filled, not just with stories, but hope. Poetry. Healing. Journals with blank pages.

And then there was the lamp on her nightstand. A soft, glowing lotus.

Siya’s touch. As she know that i gave her a nickname lotus.

Mom smiled at her gently. “You can change anything you want,” she said. “But I hope you’ll keep the balcony door open sometimes. The mornings here… they feel like peace.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, soaking it in.

And I—I stood at the doorway and watched.

Mom and Siya gave her some time, fussed a little more—adjusted pillows, checked the water jug, like she was royalty settling into her palace. Then, with that same warmth, they quietly walked out.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

Because… something tugged at me.

Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t said a single word. Or maybe it was because I hadn’t said the only one that really mattered.

I took a step closer and leaned gently against the doorframe, hands in my pockets, watching her as she stood near the window—still, silent, a storm wrapped in calm.

And then I said it, quietly, just loud enough for her to hear:

“I just realized I never really introduced myself to you.”

She turned slightly, eyes meeting mine.

“I mean… you’ve called me everything else so far—Mr. Eye Reader, stalker, boss, bodyguard, saviour, and man with a God complex… God knows what not.”

A tiny flicker of something crossed her face. Amusement? Recognition? I couldn’t tell. But it was there.

I stepped further in.

“Let’s fix that, shall we?”

Pause.

“Hi. I’m Shaurya Singh Rathore.”
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