Samriddhi

The next morning felt different.

Not rushed. Not heavy. Just… full.

We were all seated at the breakfast table when his mother suddenly looked at me with a fond smile and said,
“Beta, aaj toh tumhe maayke jaana hai. Pagphera.”

Before I could even react, I felt the air beside me shift.

Vaibhav sulked.

Not dramatically—but enough for everyone to notice.

His shoulders dropped. His spoon slowed. His lips curved downward just a little.

Everyone burst into laughter.

“Aise muh bana raha hai jaise hum usse hamesha ke liye bhej  rahe ho,” his father teased.

Vaibhav defended himself immediately. “Main bas—”

His father cut him off, smirking.
“Arre toh jao na saath mein. Tum bhi apne sasural jao. Ek din reh lena.”

His face lit up instantly.

The transformation was so fast, I laughed out loud.

“Sach?” he asked, eyes bright.

I nodded, amused. “Obviously.”

Breakfast ended in laughter, teasing, and stolen smiles. After getting ready, we left for my home together—his hand resting comfortably on mine the entire drive, like he belonged there already.

And maybe he did.

Maa opened the door before we could knock.

“Arre meri bachchi,” she said, pulling me into a tight hug—then immediately turning to Vaibhav.
“Aur yeh mera beta.”

Papa joined us, his hand resting proudly on Vaibhav’s shoulder.
“Ghar aa gaye tum dono.”

Inside, the house buzzed with warmth. Tea turned into snacks. Snacks turned into stories. Vaibhav listened quietly, respectfully—occasionally adding something that made everyone laugh.

After a while, Maa pulled me toward the kitchen.

“Tu theek hai na wahan?” she asked softly, concern layered beneath the question.

I hugged her without a word.

“Bahut,” I whispered. “Sab kuch… bahut acha hai.”

I told her everything—his care, his gentleness, the cabin, the laughter. She listened with moist eyes and a smile that said my daughter is safe.

Just then—

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted politely.

We turned.

Vaibhav stood at the kitchen door, hands tucked into his pockets, sheepish but confident.

Maa smiled. “Haan beta?”

 “who kuch nahi mai bas paani lene aaya tha”.

Her mother said “are toh mujhe bol diya hota mai le aati.: to which he smiled and said”toh kya hua maa ye mera bhi toh ghar hai na?” then her mother nodded warmly  and asked suddenly-

“Woh… tumhara favourite dessert kya hai?”

“Kheer,” he replied with hesitation.

Maa clapped once. “Toh phir kheer banate hain.”

“No.”

The single word stunned us.

He stepped forward. “Main banaunga.”

Silence.

“What?” Maa blinked.

“Pehli rasoi meri bhi honi chahiye,” he said firmly. “Sasural hai na.”

Everyone protested. I laughed, trying to stop him. Papa shook his head. But Vaibhav—once decided—didn’t budge.

Finally, they agreed.

I watched him from the doorway as he cooked—focused, careful. Before serving, he offered the kheer to Lord Krishna, eyes closed in quiet reverence.

The kheer was… genuinely good.

“Doctor ho ke chef bhi?” Papa teased.

Maa smiled knowingly. “Ab gift bhi milega.”

She handed him a small box—a platinum chain, his initial engraved delicately.

“I had it made earlier,” she said. “Pagphera ke liye. Par ab pehli rasoi bhi ho gayi.”

Papa cleared his throat.
“Aur meri taraf se… tumhari favourite sports car book ho jaaegi .”

“No—” Vaibhav started.

Papa gave him the look.

He pouted. Everyone laughed.

Then he turned to me, eyes dancing.
“Aur meri biwi ka gift?”

I smirked. “Thoda wait karo, doctor saab.”

A week later, on Sunday, I asked casually,
“Art studio dekhna hai?”

He nodded immediately.

At the studio, I blindfolded him.

“Samriddhi—”
“No arguments.”

He sulked. I laughed.

Inside the room, I removed the blindfold.

He froze.

Paintings.

Him.

Everywhere.

His eyes. His smile. His concentration. His exhaustion. His gentleness. Large canvases. Small frames. His lips.His hands. Everything I could think of ….

Tears filled his eyes.

He couldn’t speak.

“This,” I said softly, “wasn’t planned. Tumhari pehli rasoi unexpected thi. Isliye thoda time laga.”

I stepped closer and asked nervously-. “Kaisa laga?”

He cupped my face and kissed my cheeks, one after the other—slow, reverent.

“Best gift,” he whispered. “Ever.”

We stared at each other—and at the same time—

“I love you.”

The timing made us laugh and cry together.

“I love you,” we said again.

His kiss was soft, deep, full of everything unsaid.

That night, wrapped in each other’s arms, I slept with a heart so full it almost hurt.

Some love doesn’t arrive loudly.

It settles—quietly, permanently.