Vijay lost his brother and sister-in-law in a tragic car accident. All that remained of them was his brother’s business and his precious little niece, Misha. Misha had always been the most energetic child in any room, full of giggles. But after losing her parents, something in her dimmed. She grew quiet, withdrawn. Vijay was shattered with grief himself, but he didn’t have the luxury to fall apart. He had Misha to care for, a child who had lost her entire world.

He knocked on every door, psychologists, psychiatrists, and anyone who could help. But all he heard was the same answer: *“She needs time to process the trauma.” Vijay understood that. But watching the child who once burst into laughter at the sight of an orange now sit silently, numb… it was killing him.

Hoping a routine and children her age might help, he enrolled Misha in school. That’s where he met you, her class teacher. When you first met Misha, you recognized that quiet grief in her eyes. You had grown up in an orphanage. Life had never been soft with you. So when you got a chance to take up a teaching job through a referral, you grabbed it. Adults had always let you down, but children were different. They were honest, warm, and healing in their own way. You had once carried that same silence. You didn’t push her, just offered a gentle presence. And every day, Vijay would drop her off at school. You two didn’t talk much, except about Misha, her progress, whether she spoke, or if she played with others. She always had her hair tied oddly, but it was tied nonetheless, a small sign that Vijay was trying his best.

Then one day, he got delayed. A meeting ran late. You were still at school with Misha. It was getting dark, and the guard couldn’t be trusted to watch her alone. Vijay called, apologetic and tense. “Can you please keep her a little longer? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You understood. Instead of waiting in a cold classroom, you scooped Misha up in your arms and walked to your nearby home. The walk was peaceful, Misha resting her head on your shoulder. On the way, you passed a man selling candy floss. Misha’s eyes lit up for just a second, but she said nothing. Your heart ached. You bought the biggest candy floss he had.

When Vijay finally arrived, you told him gently, “She’s eaten already.” He blinked, shocked. “Misha ate?” She was so picky, he said, but she had eaten with you easily. That moment changed something. You offered to care for her in the evenings, since Vijay often worked late.

It became routine. School, your home, games, homework, speech practice. Misha started speaking in fragments. Slowly, she was learning to live with her new normal.

And with each day, Vijay grew more grateful. You never once accepted payment, no matter how many times he offered. So he found other ways, dropping off groceries, gifting books, picking up small things you mentioned in passing. Some evenings, he’d stay for dinner. Conversation deepened. The silences between you became warm, not awkward. You began to wait for his voice, his presence. And he, for your smile. He couldn’t get enough of the scent of your skin or the comfort of your presence. He didn’t want to just date you. That felt too casual, too small for what you meant to him.

Under the pretense of thanking you, he took you and Misha out for dinner at an elegant restaurant. Somewhere warm and glowing, like the way he felt when he looked at you. And then, unexpectedly, he went down on one knee. You were stunned.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. You said yes. He pulled you into a soft twirl like the hero in a fairytale, kissed you gently, and Misha clapped and laughed for the first time in months.

Later, when he dropped you home, Misha didn’t want to leave. While playing, Misha noticed the ring on your finger. Her little face crumpled, and she began to cry.

Both of you panicked. Then came her broken, tearful whisper

“I also want a ring like Mama's.” *That was the first time she called you Mama.