Yul watched her reflection blur in the car window as her husband adjusted the rearview mirror. The engine was still off, the air still, but inside her chest, something stirred.
They were going to the temple, and his father stood waiting outside the gate. When Anika moved toward the front passenger door, her husband gently touched her arm.
"Sit in the back, please. Papa will sit in front. He’s elder."
She hesitated. The car — her car — had been bought with her savings, the product of early mornings, skipped lunches, and long days at the office. She said nothing, only nodded, slipping into the back seat like a guest in her own life.
The baby inside her shifted, almost as if sensing her hesitation.
Later, at the temple, they had lunch under the neem trees. The steel plates glinted under the sunlight. Yul’s stomach churned — she hadn’t been well for days. Her nausea had become a regular guest lately, along with fatigue and the quiet ache in her back.
As the meal ended, her husband leaned in and whispered,
"You should help wash the dishes. It doesn’t look good when a man does it."
She blinked. He knew she was pregnant. He knew she wasn’t feeling well. But all that mattered, in that moment, was how it looked to others.
Something inside her sagged. She stood up slowly, knees aching, legs heavy, and walked to the wash area. The water was cold. The soap stung. But she scrubbed anyway, watching rice grains swirl down the drain like parts of herself being carried away.
That night, he brought her warm soup and rubbed her shoulders while watching a cricket match.
He was a good man, she told herself. He did the cooking, the cleaning, and never raised his voice.
But then there were the other days.
The days when his cousin would call, asking to be taken to the hospital or the market. And he would leave — in the car she had bought — without a word. Only a message much later:
“I dropped them off at the clinic.”
Or worse: “We’re at the mall, do you need anything?”
No asking. No informing. Just deciding. As if her time, her contribution, her presence didn’t need to be factored in.
She wasn’t angry that he helped people. She was angry that he didn’t see her while doing it.
And sometimes, when no one was around — when the lights were off and her body curled into itself — she’d cry softly into the pillow.
Missing the smell of her mother's kitchen, the warmth of her father’s voice.
Missing the home where she was someone’s daughter, not just someone’s responsibility.
Her parents were in the city. Just a few hours away. But it felt like a world apart.
She longed for the simplicity of being cared for, the sound of her mother asking if she’d eaten, if she was resting, if the baby was kicking.
Here, she was always strong. Always silent. Always swallowing her pain so no one had to carry it but her.
More than anything, she wanted him to understand — not complain, not accuse her of starting fights every time she spoke up. But whenever she told him how she felt, his words cut sharper than silence:
"You always start the fight."
It wasn’t a fight. It was a plea. A hope that maybe he’d see her not just as someone who argues, but as someone who needs to be seen.
Every favor for someone else, every choice made without her, was like a page torn quietly from their partnership — until one day, she feared there'd be nothing left but the binding.
And still, when her face betrayed her feelings, he called her childish.
Insensitive. Petty.
But it wasn’t childish to want to be seen.
It wasn’t petty to want to be considered — especially now.
She was carrying their child, after all. She was tired, sick, and still going to work. And still, she was the one being told to move aside, to stay quiet, to scrub dishes while he kept his image clean.
Somewhere between the temple lunch, the disappearing drives, the quiet nights she cried without sound, and the countless times her words were met with blame, Anika realized:
It wasn’t love she doubted.
It was her place in it.
And in the silence between them, she began to wonder:
When does being the strong one stop feeling like being the only one?
