Chapter Five: The Proposal

One day, while at the grocery store, a woman eyed Ashima, then looked at Aarav, commenting with quiet disdain, “So young… where’s the father?”

Ashima smiled, straightened her back, and replied calmly, “He resides in my son’s smile.”

The woman blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. Ashima continued, her head held high, with Aarav gurgling joyfully in her arms.

She had come to an important realization: people would gossip regardless.

So she might as well offer them something worth discussing.

By the time Aarav celebrated his first birthday, the home was filled with balloons, handmade decorations, and the giggles of neighbors who had once whispered in secret. Ronit dressed as a clown, Aarav smeared cake all over his face, and Ashima… Ashima finally laughed again. The sort of laughter that originated deep within. Full and genuine.

And that night, once the guests had departed and the lights were out, she stood by the window and spoke to the stars, “He’s content, Karan. We’re okay.”

And for the first time in ages… she truly meant it.

It started with a knock at the door — hesitant, respectful.

Ashima was in the kitchen, feeding Aarav mashed banana while Ronit danced around to a cartoon jingle. Her mother opened the door and gasped softly.

“Mr. Raijada?”

Ashima peeked out from the kitchen. She didn’t recognize the elderly man standing in their hallway, dressed in a crisp white kurta, a neatly combed mustache, and eyes that seemed to have seen both power and pain.

“I’m sorry to come unannounced,” he said, stepping in slowly. “But I had to meet Ashima ji in person.”

Ashima placed the spoon down, wiped her hands, and stepped forward.

“I know this is unusual,” he said, folding his hands. “But please… hear me out.”

Mr. Raijada didn’t waste time with small talk. He spoke clearly, with the calm confidence of someone used to being heard.

“My son, Viraj, lost his wife during childbirth. Their son, Ishaan, was born premature. The boy is alive, but he needs care. Real care. A mother’s love, even if not by blood.”

Ashima felt her stomach tighten. She had heard of the Raijadas — a wealthy family from the other side of the city, deeply rooted in tradition, reputation, and silence.

“I’ve seen how you’ve raised your son, how you carry yourself with dignity. You’ve lost too… and yet you still walk with strength.”

Ashima said nothing.

Then came the part that made her heart pause.

“I am proposing… a marriage. Between you and my son.”

Her breath caught. She looked at her equally stunned mother.

“It would be a contract marriage,” he clarified. “Legally bound, for the sake of the children. No expectations of love, no pressure to become a wife in the traditional sense. It would last one year, renewable only by mutual agreement.”

Ashima’s voice finally found its way out. “And your son agrees to this?”

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