Chapter 2: The Strength Behind Her Silence

The sun peeked through the sheer curtains of a modest flat near Indiranagar, where early morning peace wrapped itself around a mother and her child.

Poornima Rao, Assistant Manager at the Reserve Bank of India, had just finished dressing her six-month-old daughter, Aaradhya, in a soft pink onesie. The little girl cooed in her arms, tiny hands tugging at her mother's dupatta with a curious smile.

That smile—so innocent, so unaware of the loss—was Poornima’s only strength now.

Six months ago, her world had shattered in a second.

One rainy evening, her husband Raghav had kissed her goodbye, saying he'd be home early with dinner. He never returned. A speeding lorry on the Outer Ring Road had taken away the man who promised her forever.

She hadn’t cried at the funeral. She hadn't screamed. She simply held her baby close and whispered, "You still have me. I will never leave you."

Poornima had aged in those six months—emotionally, mentally—but her heart remained a soft place only for Aaradhya. She refused any offers of help, even from her in-laws, choosing instead to raise her daughter alone, work her job, and build a world steady enough for both of them.

Her life had narrowed down to routines:

Morning feeds. RBI work calls. Evening lullabies.

No distractions. No dreams. No space for pain.

Only one goal—be everything Aaradhya could ever need.

That morning, as she fed her baby on the kitchen floor and sipped tea from a chipped mug, her neighbor peeked in and said, “You’re strong, Poornima. But... don’t you ever get tired?”

She smiled softly, kissing Aaradhya’s forehead.

“I do. But this little one gives me the strength I don’t have.”

Outside, Bangalore buzzed like any other Monday. But inside that little home, wrapped in a mother’s arms, was a quiet kind of love. The kind that didn’t shout. The kind that healed.

And even as the world moved on without her, Poornima stood still—anchored only by the tiny heartbeat she now lived for.