I sat there for a long time after she left, her words echoing in my mind. The guilt in her voice had been real. The love had been real too.
This family, broken and flawed as it was, had somehow become mine.
When I finally emerged from the temple, the house was waking up. I could hear movement in the kitchen, smell chai being prepared. I made my way to the dining room and found Armaan already there, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him that he was not drinking.
He looked up when I entered, and the vulnerability in his eyes made my heart clench.
"Good morning," he said quietly.
"Good morning."
Dadi and Papa joined us shortly after, and we all sat down for breakfast together. Mamta ji served fresh parathas and aloo sabzi, but I could barely taste anything. My stomach was in knots.
Armaan kept glancing at me throughout the meal, but he did not push for conversation. Did not ask me what I had decided. Just stayed close, a silent presence, waiting.
After breakfast, he stood and called out.
"Ramesh, please bring the car around. We need to leave for the courthouse."
The courthouse. Where I would have to make my decision. Where I would have to stand in front of that judge and declare whether my marriage would continue or end.
I stood slowly, my hand automatically going to my very swollen belly. The baby had been active all morning, as though sensing my anxiety.
I was standing in the living room, trying to gather the courage to walk out that door, when suddenly everything changed.
Pain. Sharp and sudden and overwhelming, radiating from my stomach through my entire body.
I gasped and doubled over, one hand clutching my belly, the other reaching out blindly for support.
"Armaan!" His name came out as a scream, raw with fear and pain.
I heard running footsteps. Then his arms were around me, supporting me, holding me up.
"Viya! What is wrong? What is happening?"
"I think... I think I am in labor," I managed to say between gasps. "But it is too early. It is only eight months. The baby cannot—"
I did not get to finish the sentence. Another contraction hit, worse than the first, and I cried out.
Armaan did not hesitate. He scooped me up into his arms as though I weighed nothing, his face pale but determined.
"Ramesh! Hospital! Now!"
He carried me to the car and placed me carefully in the back seat, climbing in beside me and cradling me against his chest. Ramesh got behind the wheel and drove faster than I had ever seen him drive.
"It is going to be okay," Armaan kept saying, over and over, his lips pressed to my hair. "You are going to be okay. The baby is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay."
But his hands were shaking. And I could hear the fear beneath his words.
The drive to the hospital was a blur of pain and panic. I could hear Armaan on the phone, calling ahead, demanding they have a team ready. Could feel his arms tight around me, keeping me safe even as my body tried to tear itself apart.
When we arrived, there were doctors and nurses waiting. Someone brought a wheelchair, but Armaan refused to let me go. He carried me inside himself, following the medical team to an examination room.
They made him set me down on the bed, and then there were hands everywhere. Checking vitals, hooking up monitors, asking questions I could barely process.
"It is premature labor," I heard someone say. "Get her to delivery. Now."
Everything moved very fast after that. I was being wheeled down hallways, bright lights flashing overhead. Armaan was beside me the whole time, his hand gripping mine so tight it almost hurt.
