His house was quieter than I expected.
Not empty—just careful.
The winter light slipped in through the curtains, pale and thin, resting on the edges of furniture like it didn't want to disturb anything. From the kitchen, the pressure cooker let out a low hiss, then went quiet.
Ruhan's mother sat by the window.
She was folding clothes slowly, methodically, as if each crease mattered. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands already turning silver near her temples.
She looked up when we entered.
Not surprised. Not curious.
Just aware.
"You're home early," she said to Ruhan.
"Yes," he replied.
Her eyes shifted to me then. They softened—not welcoming exactly, but not closed either.
"This is Pragati," Ruhan said. "She studies with me."
She nodded. "I know."
I wasn't sure how she did. But somehow, that made sense.
She went back to folding. Ruhan placed his bag down carefully, like noise mattered here.
For a few minutes, no one spoke.
The clock ticked. The heater hummed faintly.
Then she said, without looking up, "School is loud these days."
Ruhan's shoulders tightened.
"Yes," he said.
She folded another shirt. Smoothed it once. Twice.
"They still talk," she added.
He didn't deny it.
"They always do."
Her hands paused.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "you didn't bring this into our house."
Ruhan swallowed.
"I know," he said. "But they carry it anyway."
She looked at him then—really looked. Not as a mother protecting a child.
But as someone who had survived something and learned how to keep standing.
"You don't have to carry what you didn't choose," she said. "But you do get to choose who you become."
The words were simple.
They landed deep.
Ruhan nodded once.
"I'm trying," he said.
She reached out then—not to touch him, just to place the folded clothes beside his bag.
"That's enough," she said.
I watched him exhale slowly. Like he'd been holding his breath longer than he realized.
When we stood to leave, she looked at me again.
"Thank you for walking home with him," she said.
I shook my head gently. "He walks beside me."
A faint smile touched her lips. The kind that doesn't stay long but means more because of it.
Outside, the air was cold again. No snow. Just winter holding on.
As we walked away, Ruhan spoke.
"She never asks questions," he said.
"She trusts you," I replied.
He glanced at me. "You do too?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
He nodded, like that settled something important.
And I realized:
Some families survive by talking. Some survive by enduring.
But the bravest ones—they survive by letting their children choose a different ending.
And Ruhan was already choosing.