When the marriage finally collapsed, it was not just my own scars that pulled me back to India, but my mother's frailty. She had fallen ill, and her voice over the phone carried a tremor that shook me more deeply than any audit report ever had. I knew then that I could no longer remain abroad, drifting between airports and hotel rooms, while her days grew quieter without me.
So Arav and I returned to India. It was a homecoming layered with exhaustion and duty — a return not for myself, but for the woman who had once held my world together. Amidst the chaos of settling back, of Arav adjusting to a new rhythm, of sleepless nights at my mother's bedside, I did not expect new bonds to form. And yet, they did.
It began with Hillary.
At first, she was just a voice at the end of her father's calls. A polite hello, a child's curiosity. But soon her voice grew bolder, her stories longer.
"Manisha, Daddy says you're very serious at work. Is that true?"
"Sometimes," I replied with a laugh. "But only when I must be."
"I don't think you sound serious at all. I think you sound kind."
Her words pierced something in me I thought had long been silenced. Soon her calls became a rhythm — spelling bees, school plays, scraped knees, little quarrels with friends. I listened, and in listening, I found warmth I hadn't expected.
One evening, after chattering excitedly about her drawings, Hillary's voice turned soft.
"Manisha… can I tell you something?"
"Of course, dear."
"You feel like my mum. Can I call you Mum?"
I froze. The word carried such weight — one I had never sought, never asked for. Yet in her voice, it was not obligation, but love.
Before I could respond, she added shyly:
"I love you, Mum."
My throat tightened. Slowly, I whispered back, "I love you too, Hillary."
From then on, she called me Mum, with the innocence only a child's heart can claim. Neither Mark nor I corrected her. Perhaps because she had simply named aloud what was already true.
Mark often stood nearby during these calls, silent but attentive. He saw the way Hillary's face lit up, the way her laughter deepened, the way she leaned into the receiver as though I were in the room. Gratitude coloured his features at first. But as months passed, something deeper stirred behind his silence.
Still, he remained cautious. He knew of my scars, of Arav's protectiveness, of the walls I had built. He never rushed me, never forced a moment. He simply watched, with patience, as love tiptoed in through the voice of a child.