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?”
