Poornima had just finished feeding little Ira and was walking toward the courtyard with a small bowl of fruits when she heard soft laughter echoing from the verandah.

She stopped for a moment behind the pillar, hearing Veerendra’s voice — light and teasing, a tone she hadn’t heard in years.

> “Veeresh, next time be a little gentle. Don’t be so harsh — she’s delicate,” Veerendra said, his voice full of mischief.

Poornima froze, eyes widening, realizing exactly what they were talking about.

> “Papa, bas! What nonsense!” came Veeresh’s flustered protest, followed by Pratap’s hearty laugh that filled the morning air.

Her cheeks burned crimson. She clutched the edge of her saree pallu to her face, trying to hide her smile that refused to stay away. Her heart fluttered — a feeling she had forgotten existed.

She heard Pratap’s voice next, softened by affection.

> “You finally look happy, Veeresh. Truly happy. And Poornima… she’s brought peace to this house.”

Poornima’s eyes welled with quiet emotion. For years, she had lived in silence, known only pain, duty, and expectations. And now, hearing her name spoken with such warmth, hearing her husband called “happy” because of her — it felt like a prayer answered.

She took a deep breath, composed herself, and stepped forward into the courtyard as if she had just arrived.

Veeresh saw her first — her glowing face, shy smile, and lowered gaze — and instantly knew she had overheard everything. His ears turned red again, and he cleared his throat. “You’re late with the fruits,” he said, pretending to sound normal.

Veerendra and Pratap exchanged knowing glances and barely contained their smiles.

Poornima placed the bowl on the table, avoiding their eyes. “Ira was awake,” she said softly. “So I got a little late.”

Veerendra smiled warmly. “Beta, come sit with us,” he said, motioning to the chair beside Veeresh.

Poornima sat quietly, eyes downcast. Her fingers nervously twisted the edge of her saree.

Veeresh glanced at her, his lips curving in a teasing smile. “Papa, now please don’t start again,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

Veerendra chuckled. “Why not? Look at her face — glowing like the first rain of monsoon,” he said fondly.

Poornima’s face turned even redder, and she whispered, “Papa, please…”

The old men laughed again — the sound of peace, of home, of generations finally finding joy after storms.

Veeresh reached under the table and gently squeezed her hand — a small gesture, unseen by others, but full of reassurance.

For Poornima, that single touch spoke everything: love, belonging, and a promise that she was no longer alone.