Page 43 of Mrs. Rathore

He said nothing. Just kept driving, his hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

But the silence spoke louder than words.

______

Chapter 15

AVNI

It was only my third day in this house, yet it felt like I had been living here for years. Every day stretched endlessly, dragging with a heaviness I couldn't shake. The only moments that brought me any real comfort were the ones spent with Grandma and Rhea. Their warmth, their laughter, it made this cold mansion feel a little less foreign.

That morning, we were all gathered around the dining table for breakfast. Mr. Rathore sat at the head, dignified and silent, while his wife took the seat beside him. I was seated next to Aryan, who seemed lost in his own world, distant and withdrawn. Across from us sat Rhea and Grandma, their quiet chuckles filling the air with ease.

It was Mr. Rathore's last day at home before returning to duty. I thought Aryan might cancel his leave to join him, but he hadn't. Grandma was the reason. He was deeply attached to her and Rhea had told me he shared everything with her. I couldn't help but wonder: what would her reaction be if she ever found out that Aryan was the one who had slammed his car into me, shattering my knees and changing everything?

The doctor said I was lucky because the injuries were mostly limited to my legs. A small scratch on my elbow had healed, but my legs... they didn't seem ready to recover. It had been nearly two weeks since the accident, and though the bruises were fading, the pain wasn't. Some nights the pain was so unbearable that I had to rely on painkillers just to sleep. I had once dreamedof becoming the best kathak dancer. I still held on to that dream, but the longer it took my legs to heal, the dimmer that dream seemed.

That morning, Aryan looked unusually restless. Though he wasn't someone attached to his phone, I noticed him checking it eight times in ten minutes. Something was bothering him. Or maybe... someone.

Ira.

What had she replied to him? A part of me wanted to check his phone, but the guilt already weighed too heavy on my conscience. I had interfered enough. Just yesterday, I'd sent a message from Aryan's phone, asking Ira to move on. I tore her away from him, my husband even if only in name. I'd spent the night tossing and turning, haunted by the consequences. Would she believe Aryan had sent that message? Probably. It had come from his number, after all.

"When will your therapist arrive?" Mr. Rathore asked me between sips of his orange juice.

"He'll be here at ten," Aryan replied before I could.

"I hope it helps your legs," he said kindly, and I gave him a small nod in response.

Mrs. Rathore had been quiet so far, a blessing, really but not for long.

"What are your educational qualifications?" she asked, eating her salad with unbothered indifference.

The question made my stomach clench. I glanced briefly at Aryan, then focused on my plate. I hated that question. It always made me feel smaller than I already did.

"I finished my final year of senior secondary school," I said quietly. "I never got a chance to attend college. Life didn't leave much room for studies."

"Just twelfth pass?" Her voice rose with disbelief, as though I'd said I never learned to read. "What exactly do you plan to do with that? Especially now with broken legs? Today's world is too fast-paced for someone who's already so far behind."

"Shalu, that's enough," Mr. Rathore cut in, but she wasn't finished.

"Can't I even ask my daughter-in-law about her future? What will people say when they hear about the Rathores' daughter-in-law? God, I hold an MBA. I expected better. You should at least be one step ahead of me."

"Oh, should she get a PhD to impress you then?" Rhea snapped.

I reached out and gently squeezed her hand under the table, urging her to stay calm.

"I never thought of anything beyond dancing," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. I bit my lip to hold back the tears. What could I even say? Should I tell her that my mother was diagnosed with cancer when I was just ten? That my father barely made enough to keep food on the table, let alone pay for college?

My hand trembled, but then I felt Aryan's warm palm cover mine. I looked at him, startled. His eyes, however, were fixed on his mother.

"Mom," he said calmly but firmly, "degrees are just pieces of paper. They don't define someone's worth, nor do they guarantee success. What truly matters are skills - real, valuable skills that come from passion and hard work. And Avni has that. She's a kathak dancer. Have you seen her Instagram? The way people admire her, the way she connects with her audience, it's clear she's already built something meaningful for herself."

He turned slightly toward me before continuing, "She's not just another girl chasing a hobby. She's known for her talent. And if she wants to pursue college later, we'll support her. But let's not pretend a degree is the only measure of someone's future. What's the use of a degree if you waste your life sitting around, judging others for how they live or look?"

"Aryan, you..." Mrs. Rathore began, stunned.

"Please," he said, gently but with finality. "Let's just have breakfast. I don't want to continue this conversation."