Page 109 of Mrs. Rathore

I told myself she’d get better. That we’d have more time. More mornings with her chai. More evenings where she corrected my posture mid-practice. More of her.

But death doesn’t wait for hope.

And grief doesn’t care how well you dance.

We were so desperate to keep Maa alive, clinging to every hope, every treatment, every prayer… that we never stopped to ask if she wanted peace instead. If she was tired of the agony. Fifteen years. That’s how long she suffered, crying and barely living.

I was only ten when she became bedridden. Back then, we told ourselves it was temporary, that she'd recover in a few months. But the months became a year. Then another. And another. And still, she lay there, imprisoned in her own body.

A part of me, the guilty part, was relieved she was free now. That the pain was finally over for her. But a much bigger part of me screamed for her return. I never got to show her the dance trophy I would win in the future. Never got to see her eyes light up with pride. She never saw me take the stage. She never got to witness my success.

And now… she never would.

I buried my face in my knees, curled up in the corner of the dance studio, silently sobbing until my tears soaked through my clothes.

“I love you, Maa,” I whispered, my voice cracking as I spoke to the silence. “I love you so much. I just want to hug you once… Just once…”

The studio slowly emptied around me. Hours passed, unnoticed. I sat there watching the other dancers rehearse, their movements graceful and focused. I stayed because I didn’t know where else to go. I needed to escape my mind, but it followed me everywhere.

When the wall clock struck eight, I finally forced myself to leave.

I booked a cab and gave the driver my home address—not the Rathore mansion but my father's home. The only place that still felt remotely like mine.

As the car sped through the streets, I stared out of the window in silence, my fingers tight around my handbag. I planned to divorce Aryan the moment he returned from his duty. If he even remembered he had a wife.

I was angry. No, furious. He didn’t show up for Maa’s funeral. He didn’t even call. Not once. We had crossed our first anniversary two months ago, and he hadn’t even acknowledged it.

Did he even remember my name? Or was I just an old file in his memory he hadn’t cared to reopen?

I knew I shouldn't expect anything from him, but I did. I wanted him to care. I wanted him to miss me. But instead, he mademe feel like a burden he’d finally gotten rid of. Like I was an obligation, not a partner. Like I never mattered.

“Ma’am, we’re here,” the driver said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I paid the fare, stepped out, and immediately noticed the sleek black car parked outside the house, its body glinting under the streetlight. My brows furrowed. Aryan’s car? But… he was supposed to be on duty. Or maybe it was Rhea or Mrs. Rathore?

Pushing away the confusion, I walked up the steps and entered the house, and froze.

He was there.

Aryan.

Sitting on a chair, just inside the living room.

Our eyes locked. Everything around us was still. My breath hitched. I couldn’t read his expression as usual. He stood quickly, looking just as unsettled.

“Aryan just arrived,” Papa said from the hallway, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “He came straight here from the base.” Then, without waiting for a response, he added, “You two talk. I have some urgent paperwork to sort out.” He disappeared down the corridor, leaving me alone with him.

“Why are you here?” Aryan demanded, his voice hard.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re supposed to be at the Rathore mansion.”

“I don’t want to go there.” My voice was cold and firm.

I walked past him to the drawer near the dining table, pulled out the folder, and returned. Without a word, I placed the divorce papers in his hand. His fingers closed around them, but his eyes never left mine.

“We’re getting divorced.”