After the wedding, you moved into a new apartment with Anmol in a different city, thanks to his job transfer. It was the first time either of you had lived away from family, and everything felt both new and delicate. The city was unfamiliar, but Anmol’s quiet presence made it easier to adjust. Though not the most expressive man, he showed his love in subtle, thoughtful ways, bringing you hot tea on cold mornings, picking up your favorite biscuits from the store, wrapping an arm around your shoulders when the world outside felt too loud.

Sometimes, he’d surprise you with a soft kiss on the forehead or an unexpected gift: a book you had mentioned in passing, a pair of earrings that matched your wedding saree. He wasn’t one for grand declarations, but in his quiet way, he made you feel cherished. Life, though not extravagant, felt peaceful and full.

Still, beneath the comfort was a persistent unease about money. As a homemaker, you didn’t earn, and even though Anmol never made you feel lesser for it, asking for things was hard. Early on, he had handed you his credit card, telling you with a half-smile, “What’s mine is yours now.” He genuinely meant it. He never flinched when you spent, often encouraging you to buy something for yourself when you returned from errands.

But that knot in your stomach never loosened. You stuck to the basics, milk, vegetables, and household items, never allowing yourself to linger over the things you quietly wanted. It wasn’t that you feared Anmol’s reaction. You feared having to explain. The idea of justifying your wants made you feel like you had to justify your existence.

One warm evening, the two of you were walking near a local bazaar, the streets alive with lights, noise, and the smell of roasted corn. You spotted a pani puri stall and your eyes lit up. Almost instinctively, you turned to Anmol. “Do you have some change?” He looked at you with amusement, shook his head slightly, and said, “I hate wasting money on street food.”

His tone was light, maybe even teasing, but the words landed with surprising weight. You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. The craving faded. You didn’t say anything. Anmol noticed your sudden silence, the way your hand slipped out of his, but he didn’t ask. Still, the moment stayed with him.

As Karwa Chauth approached, you felt a quiet urge to feel beautiful again. You hadn’t dressed up in months just soft cotton kurtas and hair tied back hastily. One afternoon, while walking past a boutique, a saree caught your eye. It shimmered in warm tones of rose gold and deep maroon, its delicate threadwork catching the sunlight. It was perfect. And expensive. You hesitated for days. The thought of asking Anmol for money made your palms sweat. What if he thought it was unnecessary? What if he said no, not unkindly, just practically?

In a moment of helplessness, you made a choice you didn’t feel proud of. You told Anmol you needed a little extra for Diwali cleaning and quietly borrowed the rest from your father. It wasn’t about the money. It was the secrecy that made your heart race.

A few days later, while searching for a missing sock, Anmol opened the closet and noticed the saree tucked behind your shawls. Curious, he pulled it out, his fingers tracing the fabric. He smiled. You had chosen well. Wanting to share the moment, he clicked a photo and sent it to his mother. Her reply came quickly: “Looks expensive. Your bride has great taste!” That one word expensive made him pause.

He turned the tag over, then checked the paper bag for a receipt. It was still inside. When he saw the price and compared it to the amount you’d asked him for, everything fell into place. A heavy feeling settled in his chest. It wasn’t the cost. He would’ve happily bought it for you. It was the secrecy. The fact that you hadn’t trusted him enough to ask. That you chose to turn elsewhere rather than risk a moment of possible discomfort with him.

“Care to explain, wife?” His voice was low and clipped. You looked up, startled. The gentleness you were used to had vanished.