Sometimes, God's plans are far better than the ones we make for ourselves.
In October, my sister-in-law was blessed with a baby boy. With a daughter already in her arms, her family felt complete.
Amidst all the emotional chaos surrounding me, there was one little angel — Aayushi — who was constantly praying for my happiness.
She used to pray to God to bless her with two brothers: one, she received from her mother, and the other... was yet to arrive.
Meanwhile, I had joined a convent school.
Spending around seven hours there felt like a breath of peace for me — a much-needed escape from the tense environment at home.
There, I found a companion — a colleague who was facing almost the same kind of family issues as I was. We silently understood each other without needing too many words.
My routine was packed:
I would wake up early, clean the house, prepare breakfast, and then rush to school.
After returning, I would cook lunch — and sometimes, if I was late, my mother-in-law would prepare it.
Then came evening tea, evening snacks, and dinner preparations.
Being constantly busy became my survival mantra.
Our doctor had advised us not to plan another baby for at least a year, but once again, God's will was different.
In November, I conceived again.
We tested in December — and yes, it was positive!
This time, things were a little different.
Raman was genuinely happy. We decided to share the news with our families — and for a change, happiness spread around us like a soft, comforting breeze.
Yet, a cloud of tension lingered in our hearts.
The memory of our previous miscarriage and the doctor's warning kept us cautious until the first ultrasound.
Finally, the day arrived.
We held our breath as the doctor checked —
"Everything is fine," she said.
Relief washed over us.
They say a baby is the symbol of love.
In our case, I often joked — our baby was a product of our anger!
(hahaha)
However, the journey of my pregnancy was far from the dream I had once envisioned.
Instead of care and affection, our home was filled with misunderstandings and arguments.
The seeds of bitterness were growing rapidly.
Talking to each other became rare.
Even small conversations often ended in cold silences or harsh words. Admist all these, I was unable to establish a bond with the baby inside me.
To cope with my emotions, I began writing a diary. It became my silent companion — a place where I could pour my heart out without judgment. I gradually stopped expecting anything — not from my in-laws, not even from Raman.
I immersed myself completely into my job and household chores, giving myself no time to rest — even though my body needed it more than ever.
As I entered the later stages of my pregnancy, discussions began about the traditional custom of a woman returning to her parental home for the first delivery.
I informed my mother that it was time to come and take me home.
Meanwhile, my doctor informed me that I would require a cesarean section.
Fear gripped me — I wasn’t ready for an operation without a second opinion, I expressed my desire to consult another doctor.
But instead of understanding, it triggered another wave of conflict.
My in-laws felt insulted —
"How could she question our family doctor?"
Once again, pride took precedence over my health and well-being.
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