7 years later

Ishani – 32 years old

Abhay – 37 years old

Divya – 32 years old

Vaibhav – 37 years old

Rahul – 26 years old

Deepak – 26 years old

Bhavya – 26 years old

Deeksha – 26 years old

Author pov...

In London, the afternoon had settled softly over the university, pale light slipping through high windows and resting across rows of attentive faces.

Ishani stood at the front of the classroom, teaching with her usual grace.

Her voice was calm, clear, patient the kind that could make restless students listen and difficult ideas seem easy.

There was a quiet rhythm to the room pages turning, pens moving, her words flowing steadily through the silence.

Then her phone rang.

The sound was small, almost ordinary, and yet it cut through the moment with a strange sharpness.

Ishani glanced at the screen, and the instant she saw the call was from

Ishaan’s school, something inside her stilled.

A mother’s heart often trembles before the mind understands why.

For the briefest second, her fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.

The color in her face faded, though she quickly forced herself back into composure. Turning to her students, she said, “Research the topic I gave you. I want proper notes. I’ll check them tomorrow.”

Her voice was steady enough, but there was haste beneath it now, a thin thread of alarm she could not hide completely.

Without another word, she stepped out of the classroom and answered the call in the corridor.“Hello?”

“Mrs. Thakur?” came the teacher’s voice. “There has been a fight involving Ishaan and some other children. Could you please come to the school?”

The words struck her like a blow.

Ishani’s lips parted, but for a moment no sound came. “A fight?” she asked at last, disbelief and fear colliding in her voice. “What do you mean a fight? Is he hurt? What happened?”

But the teacher did not explain.

“Please come to the school first, Mrs. Thakur.”

The line went dead.

Ishani stood motionless, staring at the phone in her hand as though the silence after the call had become heavier than the words themselves.

Fear rose in her chest so suddenly that it almost stole her breath.

Not knowing what had happened, not knowing whether her son was scared or bleeding or alone there is no torment quite as merciless as that for a mother.

She returned to the class, but she was no longer truly present there.

The students noticed the change in her face, the strain in her eyes.

“That’s all for today,” she said quickly. “The topics I gave you will be checked tomorrow.”

She gathered her bag with trembling hands and hurried out.

By the time she reached her car, panic had already begun to take hold of her body. She called Abhay immediately.

No answer.

She called again.

Still nothing.

And again.

The phone kept ringing, useless and distant, and with every unanswered call, her fear deepened and sharpened into anger.

The drive to the school became a blur of traffic, pounding heartbeat, and wild thoughts.

Her mind refused to stay still. Was Ishaan crying? Was he injured badly? Had he been frightened? Had he asked for her?

She kept calling Abhay all the way there, as though his voice might give her something solid to hold on to.

But when he still did not answer, she threw the phone onto the passenger seat in frustration the moment she arrived.

Then she got out of the car and saw her son.

Ishaan was standing outside.

Blood was trickling from the cut above his eye.

There was blood at the corner of his mouth too, bright and terrible against his skin.

He looked so small standing there, so defenseless, so heartbreakingly young, that the sight of him seemed to tear through Ishani where she stood.

For a moment, everything inside her stopped.

Then she ran to him.

“Ishaan—”

His name broke from her lips like a cry.

Her bag slipped from her shoulder as she reached him, her trembling hands lifting toward his face, only to pause in fear of hurting him further.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice unsteady, breathless with panic. “How did this happen? Ishaan, look at me…”

Before he could answer, a teacher approached."Mrs. Thakur?”

Ishani turned sharply, fear already burning into anger.“Yes?”

“Please come inside,” the teacher said. “Bring Ishaan with you.”

There was something cold in the formality of it, something that made her mistrustful at once.

Still, she placed a protective arm around Ishaan and guided him inside, keeping him close to her side as though she could shield him from whatever waited in that room.

Inside stood another boy, Kevin, injured as well, with blood on his hands and mouth. His parents were there beside him.

The atmosphere in the room was tense, brittle, poisoned before anyone had even begun to explain.

The homeroom teacher looked at Ishani and said, “Mrs. Thakur, look at what your child has done to Kevin.”

The accusation was immediate.

No attempt at fairness, no effort to understand both sides only blame, pointed and cold.

Before Ishani could respond, Kevin’s father spoke, his voice thick with contempt. “What else can you expect from Indians? Uncivilized people. And you send your mad child to a normal school.”

The room fell into a stunned silence.

For one terrible second, Ishani simply stared at him, as though the cruelty of his words was too ugly to be real.

Then the shock on her face gave way to something far more dangerous.

Rage.

“Excuse me?” she said, her voice shaking. “Who are you calling mad? Do you have any idea how to speak? He is a child.”

Kevin’s father did not soften. “Your son is mad,” he said coldly. “You should know that yourself. Look at the way he behaves. He belongs in a mental asylum, not here.”

The words were vile, and they landed with all the force of deliberate cruelty.

Ishani felt them like wounds not because they had any truth in them, but because they had been hurled at her child while he stood there bleeding, listening.

She turned at once to the teacher, and the pain in her face was now matched by fury.

“Will you say nothing?” she demanded. “My child is autistic. He is not mad. Do you understand that? He is autistic.”

Her voice broke on the last words, not from weakness but from the sheer force of feeling behind them.

“My son is brilliant,” she continued, tears burning in her eyes. “He tops his class. He works hard. He is sensitive, intelligent, and more disciplined than most children his age. And you stood here and listened while someone called him mad? You said nothing?”

The teacher remained silent, and that silence was its own kind of betrayal.

Ishani drew Ishaan closer to her, her hand tightening around his shoulder with protective instinct.

She was shaking now shaking with anger, with fear, with hurt too deep to hide.

“He is not broken,” she said, her voice lower now, raw and fierce. “He is not less than anyone in this room. And none of you have the right to speak about my son like that.”

In that moment, she no longer looked merely like a frightened mother.

She looked like something fiercer: a woman wounded through her child, standing between him and the world with every ounce of strength she had.

Because a mother can bear many things in silence. She can bear exhaustion, worry, loneliness, sacrifice.

But there is something in her that rises like fire when her child is insulted, especially a child the world has already failed to understand.

Ishaan stood there quietly, blood drying on his skin, his small face withdrawn into hurt and confusion, while the adults around him turned his pain into judgment.

And perhaps that was what made the moment so unbearable.

Not only that he had been hurt, but that he had been made to stand in the center of such ugliness and hear himself spoken of as though he were something shameful.

But to Ishani, he was nothing of the sort.

He was her son.

Her pride.

Her heart is walking outside her body.

It becomes fierce.

And that day, in that room, Ishani’s love for her son was the fiercest thing of all.

The homeroom teacher stood stiffly in the middle of the office, her face pale with stress, her voice controlled but sharp.

“Mrs. Thakur,” she said firmly, looking at Deeksha, “the entire school knows that Ishaan is an autistic child, and let me make one thing very clear—we have never had a problem with Ishaan studying here. Not once. He has every right to be here.”

Her eyes hardened as she pointed toward Kevin, who was sobbing in his father’s arms, clutching his injured hand.

“But this level of aggression is not acceptable. Ishaan stabbed Kevin’s hand with a pencil. You can see for yourself how badly he is bleeding. And Mannat Thakur supported him she got into a fight with Kevin too. I have already called Miss Deeksha Thakur, and—”

The office door suddenly opened.

All heads turned.

Mannat walked in, her small hand tightly wrapped around Deeksha’s fingers.

Her little face was burning with anger, her chest rising and falling heavily. There was blood near her nose, a thin red line trailing to her lip.

Beside her stood Deeksha, still dressed in her black court attire, having clearly come straight from work.

Her lawyer’s coat framed her tall figure, but the exhaustion in her eyes betrayed her calm exterior.

Before Deeksha could say a single word, Mannat stepped forward.

Her voice trembled, not with fear but with fury.

“Teacher,” she said, glaring through tear-filled eyes, “Ishaan is not mad.”

The room went silent.

Mannat pointed a shaking finger toward Kevin.

“Ishaan did not start the fight first. Kevin did. He and his gang started it. He called Ishaan mad…” Her voice broke for a second, but she forced herself to continue. “And he said my papa left my mumma and went away.”

Then she turned toward Deeksha.

For one heartbreaking moment, she was no longer angry just a little girl, wounded and desperate.

“Mumma…” she said, looking straight into her mother’s eyes, “you tell them. Papa didn’t leave us. He went on a mission… to kill bad people.”

Deeksha froze.

The words pierced through the room like glass.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

There it was again that same lie she had protected her children with.

That same carefully built illusion meant to save their innocent hearts from a truth too ugly for them to carry.

Before Deeksha could gather herself, Kevin’s father stepped forward, his face twisted with rage and disgust.

“I do not care about any of that,” he snapped coldly. “I don’t care what excuses you people make.”

His eyes swept over Deeksha, Mannat, Ishani and Ishaan with open contempt.“These Indians I don’t understand why they come here to London if they don’t know how to live properly.”

The insult hit the air like poison.

Deeksha’s fingers tightened around Mannat’s hand.

Kevin’s father pointed furiously at his son’s injured hand.

“Look at what they’ve done to my child!” he shouted. “Just look at him! Both of these children should be restrained right now. Immediately. I want action now, and I want nothing else.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

The room was thick with rage, shame, pain, and something even heavier humiliation.

Mannat stood there trembling, blood still at her nose, her little jaw clenched as if she refused to cry in front of them.

And somewhere behind her, Ishaan stood silent confused, overstimulated, wounded in a way no one in that room seemed willing to understand.

Deeksha slowly lifted her head.

Her tired eyes, moments ago clouded with shock and pain, now held something far more dangerous.

Steel.

The protective rage of a mother.

She stepped forward,placing herself between her child and the world that had just tried to crush them.

Ishani knelt in front of him.

Her hands trembled as she cupped his face.

“Ishaan,” she said softly, her voice breaking under the weight of love and pain, “look at me, baby.”

His eyes shifted to her.

That one small movement nearly undid her.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, though tears had already gathered in her own eyes. “Mumma is here. No one will hurt you.”

Behind her, Kevin’s father scoffed impatiently. “My son is the one injured.”

Ishani rose to her feet.

And when she turned around, she was no longer just a frightened mother.

She was a mother standing between her child and the world.

“My son is injured too,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Maybe not in the way you are willing to see, but he is injured.”

The teacher shifted awkwardly. “Mrs.—”

“You said you understand he is autistic,” Ishani cut in, looking at the teacher now. “Then why was he left in a situation where he was being provoked by a group of children? Why was my son mocked for something he cannot help? Why was my child pushed so far that this happened?”

No one answered.

Because those were the questions that mattered.

Mannat wiped her tears angrily and spoke again. “Kevin called him mad again and again. He was laughing. His friends were also laughing. And when I told them to stop, he said my papa left my mumma.”

Ishani’s face tightened in pain.

Deeksha stepped forward then, her courtroom sharpness returning all at once.

“So before anyone talks about punishment,” she said coldly, “let us talk about bullying. Let us talk about ableist slurs. Let us talk about racial abuse. And while we’re at it, let us also talk about the fact that a child standing here with a bleeding nose was apparently not important enough for anyone to mention the same outrage.”

The teacher looked deeply uncomfortable now.

Kevin’s father bristled. “Your children attacked my son.”

Deeksha met his stare without blinking. “And your son provoked a vulnerable child, insulted him, and humiliated him in front of others. Do not tell half the story and expect sympathy for the whole of it.”

For a second, Kevin’s father had no reply.

Mannat moved closer to Ishani now, but her anger had begun to crack. Beneath it was only pain.

She looked up at Ishani with wet, frightened eyes. “Aunty… we didn’t do wrong, na?”

That word  Aunty in that tiny broken voice, made the whole room feel unbearably sad.

Ishani’s expression softened instantly.

She pulled Mannat close with one arm while keeping the other near Ishaan.

“You were trying to protect him,” Ishani said gently. “I know that. But fighting is still wrong.”

Mannat’s lips trembled. “But they were hurting him.”

“I know,” Ishani whispered.

Deeksha looked away for a second, swallowing hard.

Then suddenly Ishaan covered his ears. His breathing turned more uneven.

The room, the tension, the blood, the voices, the staring faces it had all become too much.

“Mumma…” he said weakly, his voice strained with panic.

Ishani dropped beside him at once.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” She held him carefully, shielding him from the room as much as she could. “Don’t look there. Just look at me. Breathe with me.”

Deeksha turned toward the teacher, and this time her voice had ice in it.

“What should have happened,” she said, “is that the adults responsible for these children should have prevented this before an autistic child was pushed into a meltdown and another child ended up bleeding.”

The teacher lowered her eyes.

Kevin’s father, though still angry, seemed less certain now.

Deeksha continued, each word measured and dangerous. “There will be accountability. Ishaan and Mannat should not have become physical, and that will be addressed. But Kevin’s actions, his words, and your racist remarks will also be addressed. Fully.”

The office went silent again.

This time, not because of shock.

Because the truth had finally entered the room and refused to leave.

Ishani stayed kneeling beside Ishaan, one hand stroking his hair, her own face pale with pain but steady with love.

Deeksha stood beside them in her lawyer’s coat, fierce and unyielding.

And Mannat, blood at her nose and tears in her eyes, stood caught between childhood and courage, having fought like a little storm for the boy she loved like her own brother.

For the first time since the chaos began, the room no longer looked at them like they were a problem.

It looked at them like a family under attack.

And that changed everything.

The teacher pressed her trembling hands together, trying to gather what little control she still had over the room.

“Please,” she said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let us not make this bigger than it already is.”

Her eyes moved from Ishani to Deeksha, then briefly toward Mr. Wilson, whose face was still red with anger.

“This matter can end here,” she continued carefully. “If both sides apologize… if the children say sorry… and if we all just let this go, it will be better for everyone.”

Deeksha’s expression did not change.

The teacher swallowed and went on, more nervously this time.

“You must understand… if this issue goes further, it will not be good for the school. There will be questions, complaints, reports…” She hesitated, then finally said what she had really been trying to say all along. “The school’s reputation will suffer.”

The words settled into the room with an ugly weight.

For one second, Ishani looked up in disbelief.

Not the children. Not the bullying. Not the cruelty. Not Ishaan’s distress. Not

Mannat’s bleeding nose.

The school’s reputation.

Deeksha let out a humorless laugh, very quiet, very sharp.

“I see,” she said.

The teacher hurried to explain herself. “No, Miss Thakur, that is not what I mean. I only mean that sometimes these situations become unnecessarily public, and then everyone suffers. If we can simply ask the children to apologize to Mr.

Wilson and his son, and if you also say sorry, then we can close the matter here itself.”

Mr. Wilson immediately straightened, clearly pleased by the suggestion.

“Yes,” he said coldly. “That would be the sensible thing. They should apologize now.”

Mannat stared at him as if she could not believe what she was hearing.

Her injured nose, her tear-stained face, her trembling little body none of it mattered.

They still wanted her to bow her head.

Ishani slowly rose from beside Ishaan.

Her face was pale, but her eyes had changed. The softness of a frightened mother was still there, but now it stood side by side with something wounded and fierce.

“So that is your solution?” she asked quietly.

The teacher tried to smile, but it came out strained. “Mrs. Thakur, please understand—”

“No,” Ishani said, her voice still low, but now steady enough to make the teacher stop. “You understand.”

She looked around the room, as though forcing every adult present to look at what they had ignored.

“My son was mocked for being autistic. My child was pushed until he broke. This little girl” she pulled Mannat gently closer“is standing here with blood on her face because she tried to protect him. And your concern is that the school should not look bad?”

The teacher opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Deeksha stepped forward.

“And you want them to apologize to Mr. Wilson,” she said, each word precise. “Not because justice demands it. Not because truth has been established. But because silence is convenient.”

The teacher’s cheeks flushed. “Please, don’t make it sound like that—”

“How else should it sound?” Deeksha asked.

Her voice was calm, but it carried the kind of edge that made everyone in the room stand still.

“You are asking the victims of bullying to apologize so the institution can protect its image. That is exactly what this sounds like.”

Mr. Wilson scoffed. “Victims? My son is the one with a hole in his hand.”

Deeksha turned to him so sharply that even he faltered.

“And yet your son is not the only injured child in this room,” she said. “The difference is that his wound is visible enough for people like you to care.”

That struck harder than any shout could have.

Mannat clutched Ishani’s hand tighter. Her chin wobbled, but she

forced herself to stay brave.

“Why should we say sorry first?” she whispered, her voice raw. “Kevin said bad things. He called Ishaan mad. He said bad things about my papa too.”

The teacher looked uncomfortable. “Mannat, sometimes for peace we say sorry and move on—”

“No,” Deeksha said flatly.

The single word cracked through the room.

Everyone looked at her.

Deeksha took one slow step forward, her black lawyer’s coat falling neatly around her like armor.

“My children will apologize for the physical fight when the full truth is acknowledged,” she said. “Not before. Not as a cover-up. And certainly not to protect a school that failed them.”

The teacher’s face went white. “Miss Thakur, please keep your voice down—”

“I am speaking very softly,” Deeksha replied. “That is the alarming part.”

For a second, even Mr. Wilson said nothing.

Ishani looked at Deeksha, and something like relief flickered through her grief.

Not relief because the moment was easy nothing about it was easy but because someone had finally said aloud what she had been too shattered to form into words.

The teacher tried one last time.

“If this becomes official,” she said nervously, “there will be investigations, possible media attention, complaints from parents… the school may suffer greatly.”

Ishani gave a faint, broken smile.

“My son already suffered greatly,” she said.

Silence.

Pure, crushing silence.

The teacher looked as though she had been slapped by the truth of it.

Ishani’s eyes filled, but she did not let the tears fall.

“You are asking us to protect a building,” she said softly, “when you could not protect a child.”

No one in the room could answer that.

Mr. Wilson shifted angrily. “This is getting ridiculous—”

“No,” Deeksha said, turning toward him again. “What is ridiculous is your confidence. Your son used cruel language toward an autistic child. You used racist language toward this family. And now you stand here expecting apologies because you are used to the world rearranging itself around your outrage.”

His face darkened with humiliation and fury.

The teacher rubbed her forehead, almost desperate now. “Then what do you want?”

Deeksha did not hesitate.

“A written report,” she said. “A full record of what happened. Statements from all children present. CCTV reviewed if available. An acknowledgment of the bullying, the discriminatory remarks, and the school’s mishandling of the situation. After that, we will discuss what comes next.”

The teacher looked horrified.

“That will destroy us,” she whispered.

Deeksha’s eyes did not soften.

“No,” she said. “What will destroy you is what you chose to ignore.”

Ishaan, still shaken, leaned weakly against Ishani’s side. She stroked his hair without looking away from the adults in front of her.

Mannat stood between Ishani and Deeksha, blood drying near her nose, her little face still wet with tears, but her back now straighter than before.

And suddenly the balance in the room shifted.

The teacher was no longer the one controlling the outcome. Mr. Wilson was no longer the loudest truth.

The school’s reputation was no longer the center of the story.

The center was where it should have been from the start—

A hurt child. A humiliated family. And two women who had finally stopped asking for fairness and started demanding it.

The teacher stood frozen for several long seconds, her face drained of color, her earlier insistence collapsing under the weight of her own shame.

Her eyes moved slowly toward Ishaan.

And something inside the teacher finally broke.

Her shoulders dropped.

When she spoke again, her voice had lost all its authority. What remained was guilt.

“You are right,” she said quietly.

The room still went.

Mr. Wilson turned to her at once. “What?”

The teacher swallowed hard and faced him properly now.

“No,” she said, a little stronger this time. “They are right.”

His face darkened. “Excuse me?”

She drew in a breath, forcing herself to continue.

“This matter was handled wrongly from the start. I should have asked what led to the fight before demanding apologies. I should have looked at all the children involved. I should have paid attention to Mannat’s injury. And I should never have let this become a room where a child’s condition was reduced to his behavior alone.”

Mr. Wilson stared at her in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” the teacher said.

For the first time, she was no longer trying to protect the school. She was trying to protect what little remained of her conscience.

She turned fully toward him.

“And you, Mr. Wilson,” she said, her tone now calm but firm, “owe this family an apology.”

His jaw tightened instantly. “Absolutely not.”

The teacher did not flinch.

“You will apologize,” she said. “Right now. For the racist remark you made. And Kevin must apologize for the language he used toward Ishaan and Mannat.”

Kevin’s father let out a cold laugh of disbelief. “You expect me to apologize to them?”

“To them?” the teacher repeated. “No, Mr. Wilson. To the people you insulted. To the mother whose child was bullied. To the child who was mocked. To the little girl who was hurt defending him.”

The words landed like blows.

Mannat blinked, as though she had not expected a grown-up in that room to finally say it out loud.

Ishani said nothing, but her fingers tightened gently over Ishaan’s shoulder.

Deeksha watched in silence, her face unreadable, though there was a hard glint in her eyes that said this was only the beginning, not the end.

Mr. Wilson looked around the room, perhaps searching for support, perhaps expecting someone to rescue him from this humiliation.

No one did.

The teacher’s voice turned even colder.

“You asked for consequences,” she said. “Here is one. You do not get to insult children and their family and then walk away acting like the only victim in this room.”

Kevin’s father’s face flushed deep red.

For a moment, it seemed he still might refuse.

Then Kevin, who had been sniffling quietly until now, looked up at his father with uncertain eyes.

The child’s injured hand was wrapped hastily in tissues, but his earlier certainty had faded.

Under the weight of everything being spoken aloud, even he looked less defiant now.

The room pressed in.

Mr. Wilson realized, perhaps too late, that the ground had shifted beneath him.

His pride fought it, but reality cornered him.

At last, with visible bitterness, he turned toward Ishani and Deeksha.

“I…” He stopped, jaw clenching. The word itself seemed to burn him. “I should not have said that.”

The teacher did not let him off so easily.“Say it properly.”

His nostrils flared.

Then, through gritted teeth, he forced the words out.

“I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “For what I said about… your family. And for the remark.”

The apology was hard, incomplete, dragged out of him rather than offered but it was there.

The teacher’s gaze shifted to Kevin.

“Kevin.”

The boy looked nervous now. His eyes flickered toward Ishaan, then to Mannat.

He swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have called you mad.”

The word hung in the air, ugly even in regret.

Kevin’s lower lip trembled a little. “And… I’m sorry for saying that about your father.”

Mannat’s face tightened, and fresh tears rushed into her eyes.

Not because it erased anything.

But because hearing the cruelty admitted aloud somehow made it all more real.

Ishaan did not respond. He only pressed closer to Ishani, still too shaken to process forgiveness, apology, or justice.

Ishani bent and kissed the top of his

head.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to him, though her own voice shook.

The teacher turned to Mannat then, her own eyes full of remorse.

“I am sorry too,” she said softly. “I should have listened before I judged. I should have seen you were hurt.”

Mannat stared at her, wounded and confused, like a child trying to understand why adults always realized things so late.

Deeksha finally spoke.

Her voice was measured, but no softer for it.“An apology is necessary,” she said. “But let us not pretend it is enough.”

The teacher lowered her eyes. “I know.”

“There will still be a written report,” Deeksha continued. “And this school will still address what happened to Ishaan.”

“Yes,” the teacher said immediately. “It will.”

This time, there was no resistance in her.

Only acceptance.

Ishani slowly lifted her gaze to the teacher.

For a moment, pain and exhaustion overshadowed everything else in her face.

Then she said quietly, “Children remember these moments. The cruelty… but also who stood up for them and who stayed silent.”

The teacher’s eyes filled with shame.

“I understand.”

Ishani slowly led Ishaan out of the office, one protective arm wrapped around his shoulders, as though she feared that if she let go for even a second, the world might hurt him again.

He walked beside her quietly, still shaken, still too overwhelmed to fully understand what had just happened.

His fingers clung to the edge of her dupatta like a child holding on to the only safe thing left.

A few moments later, Deeksha came out with Mannat.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Ishani looked at Deeksha, and her eyes softened with something deep and emotional.

“Thank you, Deeksha,” she said quietly. “If you had not been there today… I would not have been able to fight like that.”

Deeksha looked at her for a second, then let out a small laugh, warm and easy, trying to lighten the heaviness hanging over them.

“Bhabhi,” she said with a faint smile, “why do you get scared of everything so quickly?”

There was no mockery in her voice, only affection the kind that comes from family, from knowing someone’s softness and still standing beside it.

Ishani gave a tired, helpless smile, but it faded quickly.

“Your brother always handles these things,” she said softly. “He is the one who deals with all this. And today… he did not even pick up the phone. I called so many times.”

Something flickered in her face then not anger, not really. More like dependence colliding with absence.

The ache of reaching for someone out of habit and finding only silence.

Deeksha’s expression is gentle.

“Arrey, he must be in surgery,” she said. “That is probably why he could not answer.”

Ishani lowered her eyes and nodded slowly.“Hmm.”

Then Deeksha smiled again, softer this time.“Okay, I’ll go now.”

Ishani looked up and gave a small nod.“Hmm.”

Mannat, who had been standing beside Deeksha all this while, suddenly lifted her hand toward Ishaan.

“Bye, Ishaan,” she said, her voice much lighter now, like she was trying to restore some normalcy after the storm.

Ishaan looked at her.

For a second, he just blinked, his big eyes still carrying traces of confusion and hurt.

Then, very quietly, he raised his hand too.“Bye.”

That one small gesture made Ishani’s heart ache.

Because even after everything, even after tears, blood, shouting, and fear children still reach for each other so simply.

Mannat smiled.

Deeksha placed a gentle hand on her head, then turned and began to walk away with her down the long corridor.

Ishani stood there for a while, watching them go.

The lawyer in black. The little girl with dried blood near her nose. Both walking away like they had just held up a collapsing wall.

Then Ishani looked down at Ishaan.

He was still close to her, still quiet, still holding her as though he needed proof she was really there.

Without saying anything, she bent and kissed his forehead.

Deeksha unlocked the car with a sharp click and pulled open the passenger-side door.

“Mannat, sit properly,” she said.

Still sniffling a little from everything that had happened, Mannat climbed into the front seat.

Her movements were slower now, drained after all that anger and bravery.

Deeksha leaned in, pulled the seat belt across her, and clicked it into place.

Then she looked at her daughter with a warning expression.

“Sit quietly,” she said. “And no nonstop chattering.”

Mannat narrowed her eyes at her mother, giving her a small offended look, the kind only children could manage even after a terrible day.

Deeksha almost smiled, but she held it back.

She closed the door, walked around the car, and slipped into the driver’s seat.

A moment later, the engine started, and the car rolled out of the school parking lot.

For a while, there was only silence.

The kind of silence that comes after too much has been said, too much has happened.

Outside, London moved on as if nothing had happened at all. Cars passed.

People crossed roads. The sky stretched pale and ordinary above them. But inside the car, the air felt heavier.

After a few minutes, Mannat turned her face toward her mother.

“Mumma…”

Deeksha kept her eyes on the road. “Hmm?”

“Mumma, when will Papa come back from the mission?”

For just a second, Deeksha’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

She glanced at Mannat briefly, then looked back at the road.

“I told you just yesterday, didn’t I, Mannat?” she said, keeping her tone light, almost playful. “Papa is very busy. He has to save the world too, right?”

Mannat did not smile.

Her small face remained serious, stubbornly wounded.

“But when will he come to my school?” she asked. “To scold everyone so nobody bullies me?”

That one sentence slipped into

Deeksha’s heart and stayed there.

She swallowed.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said gently. “I won’t let anyone bully you.”

Mannat’s eyes filled again, though she tried hard not to cry.“But I want Papa.”

The words were so soft. So simple. So impossible.

And for the first time since leaving the school, Deeksha had no answer ready.

No clever line. No comforting lie that didn’t feel fragile.

No story big enough to fill the shape of a father-sized absence.

So she said nothing.

She only kept driving.

Ishani reached home with Ishaan wrapped in a silence that felt far too heavy for a child his age.

The moment they entered the house, she made him sit gently on the sofa.

Her hands were careful, almost trembling, as she opened the first-aid box and dabbed medicine over the small scratches on his skin.

The room was quiet except for the soft clink of bottles and cotton, the faint rustle of his school uniform, and Ishaan’s uneven breathing.

He sat still for a while, watching her.

Then, in a very small voice, he asked, “Mumma… I am not mad, am I?”

Ishani’s hand stopped for a second.

It felt as though someone had reached inside her chest and squeezed her heart.

But when she looked up at him, she forced a smile so gently that it almost hid the pain in her eyes.

“No, baccha,” she said softly. “You are not mad at all. You are the most special boy.”

Ishaan lowered his eyes.

“But everyone calls me mad,” he whispered. “How do I look mad at them? Nobody wants to be my friend. Nobody talks to me in school except Mannat didi.”

Every word struck Ishani like a fresh wound.

Children could survive bruises, scrapes, even fights.

But these quiet questions these were the ones that truly broke a mother.

For a moment, she could not speak.

She only looked at him, at his innocent face clouded with hurt, at the confusion he carried because the world had chosen cruelty where it should have offered kindness.

Then she cupped his face in both hands.

“Listen to me,” she said, her voice warm and steady despite the ache underneath it. “People say hurtful things when they do not understand someone. That does not make them right.”

Ishaan looked at her with wide, searching eyes.

Ishani brushed his hair back lovingly.

“You have me,” she said. “And Mannat didi. And Papa. We are all your friends too. You can always talk to us. Always.”

Ishaan’s lips trembled slightly. “But why does nobody else want to talk to me?”

That question made her smile fade for just a moment.

Not because she did not want to answer—but because the truth was too cruel to place in a child’s hands.

So instead, she pulled him a little closer.

“Some people take time to understand hearts like yours,” she said quietly. “That is their weakness, not yours.”

He stayed silent.

His head lowered, his fingers twisting nervously in his lap.

Ishani stroked his cheek.

“Let people say what they want,” she murmured. “You do not have to become what they call you. You know who you are. And I know who you are.”

Ishaan looked up again.

“Who am I?”

A tear almost escaped her then, but she swallowed it back and smiled again this time softer, deeper, fuller with love.

“You are my brave boy,” she said. “My sweet boy. My special boy. And nothing anybody says can change that.”

For a second, he just stared at her.

Then, slowly, like a child who had been holding himself together for too long, he leaned forward and rested his head against her.

Ishani wrapped both arms around him instantly.

She held him close, one hand on the back of his head, the other rubbing his shoulder in slow, soothing circles.

And as she sat there with her son in her arms, she stared silently into the distance.

Her face is calm for his sake, her embrace is warm for his sake, her voice is soft for his sake.

While inside, her heart grieved for every cruel word he was already learning to carry.

Because the world had called him names.

But to her, he was only a child asking for love in a language of pain.

And she would spend the rest of her life making sure he never forgot he deserved it.

That night, Ishani fed Ishaan with her own hands.

Usually, even when he was upset, he would say something complain about the food, ask for water, cling to her sleeve, speak in broken little thoughts that only she could fully understand.

But tonight, he was too quiet.

Too tired. Too wounded.

And that silence was unbearable.

She sat beside him with the plate in her lap, breaking each bite into smaller pieces, lifting them gently to his mouth, watching him chew without interest, without energy, without even looking at her properly.

Every now and then, his lashes would lower, and she would remember his trembling voice from earlier—

Mumma, I am not mad, am I?

That one question had not left her for even a moment.

It was still there, lodged in her chest like something sharp.

When he finished eating, she wiped his mouth softly and took him to bed.

She tucked him in with almost painful care, as if gentleness alone could undo what the world had done to him that day.

Then she sat beside him.

Her fingers moved through his hair again and again, slowly, soothingly, until his body finally relaxed and sleep began to pull him under.

Even then, he did not look peaceful.

His little face still held traces of hurt, of confusion, of the kind of sadness children should never know so early.

Ishani bent down and kissed his forehead.

For a second, her lips stayed there.

And when she pulled away, her eyes were already shining.

“My poor child,” she whispered.

Then she got up and left the room quietly, as though even her footsteps should not disturb his pain.

The living room was dim when she came back out.

Abhay’s plate was still on the table, covered neatly, waiting for him. She had kept it warm once. Then warmed it again. Then again.

But she herself had not eaten a single bite.

How could she?

Her son had come home wounded in a way she could not heal with antiseptic and cotton.

Her heart had been shaking since afternoon. Her calls had gone unanswered. Her husband had not been there.

So she sat down on the sofa and waited.

And waited.

The clock kept moving. The food kept getting cold. The house kept growing quieter.

At some point, the exhaustion became stronger than her anger, stronger than her hunger, stronger even than her need to keep her eyes open.

And while waiting for him, she fell asleep right there on the sofa.

Not properly. Not comfortably. Just the sleep of someone who had run out of strength before she had run out of pain.

It was around two in the morning when the front door finally opened.

Abhay stepped inside, tiredness hanging off him like another layer of clothing.

His shoulders were heavy, his face drawn, his eyes dull with a long day that had stretched too far.

But then he saw her.

Sleeping on the sofa. Still waiting. Still in the same clothes. Still beside his untouched plate.

And for a moment, he just stood there.

His gaze moved from her face to the table and back again. She had not eaten either. That much was obvious now.

Something unreadable crossed his face.

He walked toward her and bent slightly.

“Ishani,” he called softly. “Ishani…”

She stirred but did not wake fully.

He called again, a little louder this

time. “Ishani.”

Her eyes opened slowly.

For one brief second, she looked lost, caught between sleep and waiting, between dream and disappointment.

Then she saw him.

“Abhay…”

Her voice was hoarse with sleep. Her hair had fallen loose around her face.

She looked fragile in that moment but only for that moment.

Because then her eyes shifted to the clock.

2:00 a.m.

At once, her face changed.

“So late?” she said, sitting up straight. “It’s two o'clock.”

Then the hurt came back, quick and sharp.

“And you did not pick up my calls.”

Abhay loosened his collar tiredly, his voice flat with exhaustion. “I was busy in surgery.”

That should have explained it.

It should have calmed her.

But it did not.

“Even then,” she said, staring at him, “you should have answered at least once.”and realized she was still alone.

Ishani said "Do you even know what happened at Ishaan’s school today?"

Abhay looked at her with weary eyes, then started removing his coat. “What happened?” he asked. “What happened at Ishaan’s school?”

The question made her laugh, but the laugh had no warmth in it.

“You don’t know?”

He shook his head once. “No. Tell me.”

So she told him.At first, her voice came out controlled. Too controlled. Like she was forcing every word through tightly shut teeth. But the more she spoke, the harder it became to stay composed.

And then, because that pain had to go somewhere, she told him the worst part.

That when she had needed him, he was not there.

Not to answer. Not to come. Not to stand beside her.

By the time she finished, her eyes were bright with anger and humiliation and something dangerously close to tears.

Abhay stood there listening, his tired face giving very little away.

Then he said, quietly, “Sorry.”

Just that.

One word.

Small. Late. Empty.

Ishani stared at him as though he had struck her.

“sorry?"Her voice cracked on the edge of the words.“That’s it? That is all you have to say?”

Abhay’s exhaustion began hardening into irritation. “Then what do you want me to say, Ishani?”

The question broke something.

She stood up so suddenly the sofa cushion shifted behind her.

“What do I want?” she said, her voice shaking now. “I want you to care. I want you to feel that something happened to your son today. I want you to understand that I was alone there. Alone.” Her breathing turned uneven. “But you don’t care anymore, Abhay. You come home, eat, sleep, and then go back to the hospital. That’s all.”

Abhay straightened too, annoyance flashing across his tired face.

“So what should I do?” he snapped. “Leave my work? Sit at home?”

His words made her go still for a second.

Then the hurt came flooding in stronger.

“There was a time,” she said, her voice lower now, trembling in a different way, “when your work was not bigger than everything. There was a time when you remembered me.

When you remembered him.” Her eyes filled despite herself. “Since when have you become so busy that you forgot you even have a family?”

Abhay’s jaw clenched immediately.

He was too tired to fight gently, too frustrated to listen with softness.

“Don’t start again,” he said coldly. “I’m going to sleep.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away.

No attempt to hold her. No pause. No looking back.

Ishani stood there staring after him, her face burning with anger, but her heart sinking with something much heavier than anger.

Because the cruelest part was not that he had shouted.

The cruelest part was how easily he had left.

As if her hurt could wait. As if

Ishaan’s pain could wait. As if this family would still be standing whenever he returned to look at it.

A few moments later, she bent down mechanically to pick up his clothes from where he had left them.

Habit moved her body even when her mind was still standing in the middle of that argument.

She was about to take them to the washing machine when she stopped.

A scent.

Faint. Soft. But unmistakable.

Perfume.

She frowned and lifted the shirt a little closer.

Then she froze.

It was not his soap. Not the hospital smell. Not detergent. Not anything familiar.

It was a woman’s perfume.

Her fingers tightened around the cloth.

She smelled it again, slower this time, as though hoping she was mistaken.

But no.

It was there.

Light, feminine, lingering.

A cold unease slid through her chest.

Abhay never wore perfume.

Never.

Strong smells irritated his sinuses. He avoided scented things whenever he could.

He had complained about fragrances so many times that she knew it as well as she knew.

Then why—

How did a woman’s perfume reach his clothes?

The room suddenly felt too still.

Her thoughts began turning over each other, quick and restless.

Maybe someone brushed past him.

Maybe it was from the hospital.

Maybe from a patient’s relative.

Maybe from nothing.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

But doubt did not need certainty to hurt.

It only needed a small opening.

And now it had one.

Ishani stood there for a long moment, the shirt in her hands, her breathing quiet, her mind no longer at rest.

Then, forcing herself not to think too far, not tonight, not yet, she put the clothes into the washing machine.

But even after her hands let go of the fabric, the smell seemed to stay with her.

She walked toward the bedroom, thinking she would ask him now. Right now. Before the doubt grew larger.

But when she reached the door, she stopped.

Abhay was already asleep.

Fast asleep.

Lying there on his side, breathing heavily, faint snores escaping him as though the entire day had ended the moment he chose to close his eyes.

As though nothing remained unfinished.

Ishani stood at the doorway and looked at him.

At the man she had waited for. At the man she had needed.

The man who had come home too late, said too little, and turned away too quickly.

Then she closed her eyes for a second and let out a long, tired sigh.

Not because her questions were gone.

Not because her anger had cooled.

But because tonight she was too exhausted to break open one more wound.

So she turned away quietly.

And in the silence of that late hour, while her son slept with pain in one room and her husband slept without answer.

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