The question came on a Friday.
Those were always the hardest days — when the clinic was full, the waiting room tense, and patience thinner than usual.
Maya was at the front desk, helping an elderly man sign his name, when she felt it before she heard it.
The shift.
The way conversations quietened without stopping.
The way eyes turned, not curious — assessing.
She looked up.
Nikhil's father stood near the doorway.
Tall.
Unsteady.
The sharp smell of alcohol clung to him, faint but unmistakable.
He wasn't shouting.
That made it worse.
"I'm looking for you," he said, eyes fixed on Maya.
Not angry.
Controlled.
That frightened her more.
Sara glanced up from the treatment room and froze.
Maya felt her heart accelerate — not with panic, but with readiness.
She stood.
"Yes," she said calmly. "How can I help you?"
The man laughed softly.
"Help?" he repeated. "That's funny."
A few patients shifted uneasily.
The room felt smaller.
"My son," he said, voice rising just a notch,"has been spending a lot of time here."
Maya nodded.
"Yes. He comes for his medicine."
"He comes to talk," the man said sharply."To you."
Silence settled.
This was the moment.
The one where she could retreat into vagueness.
We're just doing our job.It's nothing personal.Please lower your voice.
She didn't.
She straightened slightly.
"Yes," she said. "He does."
The man stared at her.
"And what exactly are you telling him?"
Maya chose her words carefully.
"I listen," she said."I make sure he takes his medicine.""And when needed, I tell him when it's time to go home."
The man scoffed.
"You think you know my family better than I do?"
Maya shook her head.
"No," she said gently. "I don't."
That surprised him.
Then she continued, voice steady, audible to everyone.
"But I know how to make this clinic a safe place. That's my responsibility."
A murmur rippled through the room.
The man stepped closer.
"You filling his head with ideas?" he asked."Telling him I'm the problem?"
Maya met his eyes.
"No," she said. "I tell him he's allowed to speak."
The words landed.
Not sharp.
Solid.
The kind that doesn't invite argument.
Sara stepped forward then, standing beside Maya.
"This is a clinic," she said firmly. "Not a place to interrogate staff."
The man glanced between them.
His voice dropped.
"You letting strangers raise my son?"
Maya answered before Sara could.
"No," she said."I'm making sure he has adults who don't scare him into silence."
The man's jaw tightened.
"This is none of your business."
Maya nodded.
"You're right," she said."Your family life is not my business."
A pause.
Then:
"But his health is. And while he's here, his well-being is our responsibility."
The man looked around.
People were watching now.
Not hostile.
Witnessing.
That mattered.
He exhaled sharply.
"So what are you saying?"
Maya didn't raise her voice.
She didn't soften it either.
"I'm saying," she said clearly,"your son is welcome here.He is treated with respect.And he will not be turned away for needing to talk."
Silence.
Heavy.
The man stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, his shoulders sagged.
Just slightly.
"You think I don't know I've messed up?" he muttered.
The room held its breath.
Maya softened — not by retreating, but by grounding.
"I think," she said carefully,"you're a man who's hurting. And your son is too."
He looked at the floor.
"I don't need lectures."
"I'm not giving one," she replied."I'm setting a boundary."
He scoffed weakly.
"Figures."
He turned.
Walked out.
The door closed behind him.
Only then did Maya realize her hands were shaking.
Sara touched her arm.
"You did well," she whispered.
Maya nodded.
Breathing.
Processing.
The clinic resumed its rhythm slowly, carefully, like a body returning to balance.
That evening, Nikhil didn't come.
Maya expected that.
She also expected the familiar spiral of self-doubt.
Did I make it worse?Should I have handled it differently?Did I overstep?
She sat on the bench by the sea with those questions.
Kannan joined her silently.
After a while, she told him everything.
He listened.
Didn't interrupt.
When she finished, she asked the only question that mattered.
"Was I wrong?"
Kannan looked out at the water.
"No," he said."You were visible."
She frowned.
"That doesn't sound reassuring."
"It's the hardest thing to be," he said."You spoke without hiding. You protected a child without claiming him. And you didn't shame his father."
She exhaled.
"I was scared."
"Of course," Kannan said."Courage is just fear that decided not to leave."
The next day, Nikhil came.
Later than usual.
He hovered near the door.
Maya saw him immediately.
Waited.
He approached slowly.
"My father was angry last night," he said."But he didn't shout."
She nodded.
"He didn't drink either."
Her breath caught.
"That's good," she said gently.
"He said," Nikhil continued,"that maybe… I can come here. Just not every day."
Maya smiled faintly.
"That sounds like a start."
Nikhil looked at her.
"You didn't tell him bad things about us, did you?"
She shook her head.
"No."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He nodded.
Sat down.
Opened his book.
Safe enough.
For today.
That night, Maya wrote only one line.
Today, I learned that boundaries spoken aloud can protect more than silence ever did.
She closed the notebook.
And felt something shift again — not loudly, not permanently.
But surely.
She was no longer just someone who stayed.
She was someone who could stand.