But she did not stir. Did not open her eyes. Did not give me any sign that she heard me or cared or would ever forgive me.
Around four in the morning, just as exhaustion was finally starting to pull me under, I felt her hand twitch in mine.
My eyes snapped open. I leaned forward, watching her face intently.
Her eyelids fluttered. Once. Twice. Then slowly opened.
"Viya," I breathed, relief flooding through me so powerfully I felt dizzy. "Thank god. You are awake."
Her eyes were unfocused at first, confusion clouding her features as she tried to figure out where she was. Then her gaze landed on me.
And everything in her expression shut down. Went cold and hard and distant.
She tried to pull her hand away from mine, but the movement made her wince in pain.
"Do not move too much," I said quickly. "You are hurt. Let me call the doctor."
I stood and moved toward the door, pressing the call button for the nurse. Within minutes, the night shift doctor arrived and began examining her, checking her pupils, her reflexes, asking her questions about her pain levels.
I stood back and watched, my heart in my throat.
Finally, the doctor smiled.
"You are very lucky, Mrs. Khanna. You are going to make a full recovery. The baby is fine as well. But you need to rest and avoid any stress or strain."
Viya did not react to the mention of the baby. Did not look surprised or happy. Just nodded slightly and closed her eyes again.
The doctor gestured for me to follow him out into the corridor. We walked to his office, and he spent the next twenty minutes explaining medications, recovery timelines, physical therapy recommendations. I listened carefully, taking mental notes of everything.
"The most important thing," he emphasized, "is that she remains calm and stress free. No arguments. No emotional upheaval. Her body has been through significant trauma. Stress could cause complications, both for her and for the pregnancy."
"I understand," I said. "I will make sure she has everything she needs."
I returned to her room, my mind already planning. I would take care of her. I would be there for every need, every discomfort. I would show her through actions that I loved her, that I was committed to making this right.
But when I reached her door, the nurse stopped me.
"I am sorry, sir. The patient has requested that you not enter the room."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"What? I am her husband. I need to see her."
The nurse's expression was sympathetic but firm.
"I understand, sir. But the patient has the right to refuse visitors. And given the doctor's orders about avoiding stress, I would recommend respecting her wishes."
"But I—"
"Sir, please. It will be better for her recovery if you stay out here for now."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to push past the nurse and go to my wife anyway. But the doctor's words echoed in my mind. No stress. No emotional upheaval.
If my presence was causing her stress, if seeing me was hurting her, then I had to stay away. No matter how much it killed me.
I stumbled to the chair outside her room and collapsed into it, my head in my hands.
This was my punishment. This was what I deserved for what I had done.
