Life in London moved at its own pace, gentle and unrelenting. The
city's hum became the backdrop to Aarya's days, but inside her father's house,
time had a softer rhythm. Her father's home—elegant, spacious, and warm—had
become a sanctuary for her pregnancy. His business partner, now his wife, moved
quietly around the house, always considerate, always attentive. She treated
Aarya as her own daughter, never replacing her mother, only offering love and
care when it was needed.
Riya visited often, laughing at Aarya's unpredictable cravings and
teasing her about Devraj's constant presence. "You've never seen a man so
terrified of breaking a woman," she said once, holding back a giggle as Devraj
adjusted Aarya's chair.
Aarya smiled, secretly
grateful for the humor. Pregnancy had taught her to appreciate small,
unassuming moments of happiness.
Devraj was present in every way that mattered. He learned the rhythm of
her moods, the subtle shifts in her energy, the signs of nausea or fatigue. On
mornings when London's fog pressed against the windows, he brought her warm
tea, soft blankets, and quiet reassurance. On afternoons when the city called
to him for work, he returned early, just to rub her back while she sat in the
garden, letting the breeze brush against her face. Every step, every gesture,
told her that he was here—not as a husband who demanded, but as a man who chose
to stay.
Her father watched
quietly. He prepared meals, walked with her on the terrace, and helped set up
the nursery with meticulous care. The baby's room was filled with soft pastels,
gentle toys, and a rocking chair that Devraj would later claim as his favorite.
The father's new wife moved among them gracefully, organizing, encouraging, and
laughing softly when Aarya tripped over boxes of diapers or forgotten toys. It
was a world of calm, a bubble of family, a preparation for something greater.
And then came the day.
Labor arrived quietly, early in the morning, when the sun had only just
begun to climb over London's skyline. Aarya woke to a dull ache that slowly
intensified. Devraj, always at her side, helped her dress, whispered
encouragement, and guided her into the waiting car. The city blurred past in
streaks of gray and gold as he drove them to the hospital, never once letting
her feel alone.
The hours at the hospital felt infinite. Waves of pain came and went,
each one sharper than the last. Her father and stepmother waited outside,
pacing and praying silently, while Riya whispered encouragement and prayed as
well. And through it all, Devraj held her hand, reminding her to breathe,
whispering her name, grounding her in the present.
Then, finally, there was a cry.
A small, piercing, magnificent cry.
Aarya's body shook with relief and wonder as the nurse placed her son
against her chest. His tiny hands curled instinctively around hers. Warm,
alive, perfect. Devraj bent close, forehead to hers, and tears ran freely down
his cheeks. Outside the room,her father breathed a long sigh of relief, and
Riya laughed and cried at the same time.
Motherhood arrived
fully in the weeks that followed. Nights were sleepless, days were endless.
Aarya cried—sometimes from exhaustion, sometimes from joy. She learned the
rhythms of her son's small breaths, the sounds of his cries, and the way he
calmed when her voice softened. She fed him, bathed him, changed him, and
sometimes simply held him, willing him to sleep a little longer in her arms.
Devraj's role was
constant, natural, and loving. He fed the child during nights, played with him
in the afternoons, taught him words and small games, and celebrated every new
milestone as if it were his own. Their son's laughter became the heartbeat of the
home. Their child felt adored by everyone—the father, grandparents, Riya, and
even the neighbors who could not resist peeking at the little boy.
Time moved forward.
Two years passed quietly. Their son grew bright, lively, and curious.
He ran through the hallways of the London home, climbed the stairs, laughed
freely, and cried only when necessary. Devraj guided him with patient
discipline and unwavering love, while Aarya watched, her heart swelling with
gratitude for the family they had created.
During these two years, Aarya's heart still held another child—Arjun,
her son from another life. Memories of him were gentle now, whispers that
stayed with her in quiet moments. She could not forget him. She could not stop
thinking of him.
One night, she spoke to Devraj softly, as their son slept upstairs. "I
want to find him," she admitted. "I have to bring him home."
Devraj reached for her hand, steady and unafraid of the past. "Then we
will," he said. "Together."
Life continued to bless her. Riya's life changed too. The doctor who
had cared for Aarya during her pregnancy became more than a friend. Their
friendship grew into something steady, warm, and real. Two years later, Riya
married him in a small London ceremony, full of laughter, friends, and hope for
a happy future.
Meanwhile, Aarya and Devraj began the long process of adopting Arjun.
They planned carefully, considering the child's needs, the emotional
complexity, and the life they could offer him. They did not rush. They wanted
him to feel loved, safe, and wanted—not just as a connection to the past, but
as part of their family, complete and whole.
For the first time, Aarya allowed herself to imagine a life where all
her children—past and present—were together. She could see them laughing,
playing, learning, and growing under the same roof. London's skies stretched
beyond the windows, full of possibility, and for the first time, she felt that
the past and present could exist side by side.
Life had given her second chances. Life had given her family. Life had
given her love.
And now, it was giving her the courage to bring Arjun home.