The day I arrived at Shivani Villa felt heavier than all the hardships I had endured combined. The house stood tall and silent, its windows mirroring the dull gray of the overcast sky.
That morning in the car, my stepmother, Kavita Mehra, had tightened her grip on my arm. “Remember, Ananya,” she whispered sharply, “this marriage is a gift.
Do not argue, do not question. Just obey.” I nodded without a word, long used to life moving forward without ever seeking my consent after my father died.
My husband, Rohan Verma, lived alone in the vast ancestral estate, bound to a wheelchair after a devastating accident no one wanted to talk about.
On the way there, servants murmured among themselves, recalling his brilliance as a young entrepreneur and the fiancée who left when misfortune struck.
When I finally stood before him, there was no warmth in his greeting.
He simply gestured toward the entrance and said quietly, “You may stay here. Live as you wish. I will not interfere.”
That evening, after the servants departed, the house felt hollow and uninviting. I lingered near the doorway, uncertain of my place. “I… I can help you get comfortable,” I whispered.
He glanced at me, his pale eyes giving nothing away. “You do not need to,” he murmured. “I know I am a burden.”
“No… that is not it,” I replied, my voice trembling despite myself.
I moved closer. “Let me help you onto the bed.”
He hesitated, surprise flickering across his face, then nodded. I slipped my arms around his back, trying to lift him. As I stepped forward, my foot slid on the carpet, and we fell hard to the floor. Pain shot through me as I pushed myself up—but I froze when I sensed a faint movement beneath the blanket.
“…You can still feel that?” I asked, startled.
He lowered his gaze, a fragile smile touching his lips. “The doctor says I could walk again with physiotherapy. But after everyone left because I could not stand… whether I walk or not, it became meaningless.”
The weight of his words filled the room, heavier than silence itself. That night, I lay awake, his voice echoing endlessly in my mind.
In the days that followed, I began reshaping our daily routine. Each morning, I wheeled him onto the balcony. “You do not have to like the light,” I told him. “But the light still likes you.”
He stopped resisting.
“Why do you bother?” he asked one morning, squinting against the sun.
“Because no one should be left alone in the dark,” I answered softly.
Little by little, I urged him to take small steps.
“Hold my hand,” I said, and he did—his grip unsteady at first. “Take one more,” I encouraged. Sometimes he fell, but I was always there, steadying him, rubbing his legs afterward.
“You are not afraid?” he asked one evening.
“No,” I replied. “I am only afraid you will give up.”
Something shifted in his eyes. The cold distance softened.
Our nights filled with quiet confessions about the past. “The day she left,” he murmured once, “I tried walking for months. Every step reminded me how worthless I was.”
“If someone stayed… would you try again?” I asked gently.
“Maybe,” he said. That single word struck deeper than any wound.
One afternoon, Kavita arrived, her sharp voice slicing through the air. “I hope you are happy now,” she said. “Remember to send money to your mother. She invested in you, Ananya.”
Before I could speak, Rohan wheeled into the room. He placed a check on the table and said firmly, “Thank you for bringing her into my life. From this moment, you have no claim over her.”
The color drained from Kavita’s face. For the first time in my life, someone had defended me—not out of duty, but because I deserved it.
Weeks turned into months. Rohan grew stronger, taking steps with a cane as I guided him, my hand always in his.
Then one morning, I woke to an empty bed. Panic seized me as I ran to the garden—and there he was, walking on his own. “You’ve healed your legs,” I whispered.
He reached for me, taking my hand. “Yes… but what you truly healed was my heart.”
Tears streamed down my face as I held him. The villa, once cold and silent, now echoed with warmth and laughter.
Every morning, he made masala chai. Every evening, we walked through the rose garden, talking about the life we were slowly reclaiming.
One night, I teased, “Do you remember our wedding night?”
He laughed softly. “Of course. You carried me then. Today, it is my turn to carry you—for the rest of our lives.”
I rested my head on his shoulder and whispered, “It turns out we do not need strong legs to move forward. All we need are hearts brave enough to find each other.”