My ex-wife came to visit our son and stayed overnight. I let her sleep in the living room. I got up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and unexpectedly heard her voice. The next day, I decided to bring her to…
Three years have passed since we signed the divorce papers. I (Rohit) have become accustomed to life with just my son and me. In the mornings, I take my son, Arnav, to school, in the afternoons I pick him up, and in the evenings we have dinner with my parents in Kanpur. Life isn’t luxurious, but it’s peaceful enough that I thought I could just keep going, slowly and quietly. I thought everything was truly over.

Until yesterday.

She stood at my gate, her figure familiar, but her eyes were different. It was the same face, only her gaze was no longer as decisive as before, but held a hint of hesitation, a hint of anticipation. She said she wanted to see our son. I was silent for a moment, then nodded.

Arnav froze when he saw his mother, then rushed to hug Meera tightly. He smiled, a radiant smile I hadn’t seen in a long time. I stood there, my heart aching at the same time. Perhaps the child had missed his mother more than I had imagined over the past three years.

She stayed all afternoon and into the evening. My parents asked her all sorts of questions, and Arnav clung to his mother, refusing to leave her side. I wanted to tell her to leave, but seeing that scene, the words got stuck in my throat. Finally, my mother asked her to stay for dinner and the night with the child. She agreed immediately, as if she had been waiting for that invitation for a long time.

That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, I got up to get a drink of water. The living room lights were still on. As I was about to turn them off, I suddenly heard very soft voices. It was my mother and Meera. I stopped, and for some reason, I didn’t move, but just stood there listening.

“It’s been three years, why haven’t you taken another step?” My mother’s voice was low and slow.

Meera replied, her voice very soft but clear:

“I can’t let go, Mātā ji. I realize that in my heart, there’s only him.”

I involuntarily held my breath. My mother sighed:

“If that’s the case, why did you two divorce back then?”

Meera was silent for a moment, her voice trembling:

“It was my fault. At that time, I only thought about making money, thinking that as long as I could support the family financially, everything would be stable. I didn’t pay attention to him, I wasn’t there for him when he was at his weakest. I was too strong, to the point that he felt useless.”

Those words were like hammer blows to my chest. For the past three years, I had blamed her for being heartless, thought that she chose money over family. But I never imagined that behind that cold exterior lay such fear.

Then Meera continued:

“I’m scared, Mātā ji. I’m afraid that if I can’t prove I can provide for the whole family, one day he’ll leave because he thinks he’s a burden.”

My mother was silent for a long time before finally speaking:

“In a marriage, it’s not just about money. It’s important to understand each other and be there for each other in difficult times.”

I went back to my room, lay down, but couldn’t fall asleep. Memories flooded back. The nights I spent in the hospital, her busy with her accounting work in Lucknow, the cold meals, the times I wanted to confide in her but held back for fear of bothering her. It turned out we both loved each other, just in the most clumsy way.

The next morning, I woke Meera up early. Still half-asleep, she asked me:

“Why did you wake me up so early?”

I looked at her, the woman who had once been my wife, who had left me in pain, and said something I myself didn’t expect:

“I’ll take you somewhere.”

“Where?” she asked, her voice still dreamy.

“To the Marriage Registration Office,” I replied with a smile.

Meera froze, staring at me for a long time. Her eyes reddened, but she didn’t ask any more questions, only nodded slightly.

The road to the Marriage Registration Office that day wasn’t long, but for me, it represented three years of misunderstanding, hurt, and silence. I wasn’t sure the future would be easier, nor could I promise that we wouldn’t argue anymore. But at least this time, I knew I wanted to hold her hand tighter and not let go out of fear again.

Some divorces aren’t because love has faded, but because neither party knows how to stay together. And sometimes, you have to go a long way to understand the simplest thing: a family doesn’t just need one person to earn money, but both need to come home together.