You were only twenty when they dressed you in red, told you you were lucky, and sent you off to live in a house that never quite felt like home. The textbooks were still warm with your touch, your dreams still raw and fresh, but everyone said this was better. A good husband. A good family. What more could a girl want?

Within a year, you were pregnant.

The test showed two lines and your heart pounded in your chest. You told Akash, your husband that night, your voice shaking, your hands clammy. You didn’t feel ready. You barely felt like a woman, let alone someone who could raise a child.

He only shrugged. “It’s normal,” he said, barely looking up from his phone. “Don’t be so dramatic. Women have done this for centuries.”

You didn’t want centuries of tradition. You wanted his hand in yours, his support, his eyes seeing you.

But the house grew heavier with every month. His mother stopped offering help and started offering advice. His aunt said things like, “Eat more ghee if you want a strong baby boy,” and his cousin smirked when you mentioned how tired you felt. “Fragile thing. How will you raise a child if you can’t handle pregnancy?”

You swallowed your tears. Day by day. Kick by kick. Silence by silence.

The delivery was long. Painful. You held on. And then came her cry — soft, shrill, and unfamiliar. A girl.

There were congratulations. Hugs. Smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “Next time maybe,” his uncle chuckled. “Try again soon.”

Akash said nothing. Not in your defense. Not in joy. Not in anything. Just stood there, quietly holding the child he never asked for.

The nights that followed were blurrier than your vision. You nursed her. Burped her. Changed her. Paced for hours. You slept in fragments, ate in gaps. Your body ached from stitches and sleep loss, your mind fraying like the ends of your torn dupatta.

Akash never woke when she cried. Never asked if you had eaten. When you’d cry quietly in the bathroom, it was your own hand that wiped the tears away.

Then came that night.

Your baby — your sweet, helpless baby — just wouldn't sleep. She cried. You rocked her. She cried again. You hushed her. Your eyelids fell. She cried again.

You hadn’t slept in three days.

Your chest heaved. Your hands trembled. You pressed her to your chest, desperate, hollow. But she kept crying.

You didn’t realize when the sob left your throat, raw and loud. Or when you shouted, “Please just stop!” Or when your hands shook so badly you had to clutch the crib rail to keep from falling apart.

And then… you screamed. Loud. Wordless. Anguished. You didn’t hit her, but your hands were too rough, your breathing too fast, your desperation too much. You cried and cried, your voice breaking, body shaking.

And that’s when he came.

Akash rushed in, eyes wide, pulling the baby from your arms. “What the hell are you doing?!”