She hadn’t looked at me since we got in.

Not once. Not after I opened the door for her, not after I sat down beside her and did nothing, said nothing.

I hadn’t even started the car, didn’t know why, or maybe I did.

The silence between us wasn’t awkward, it was worse than that. It was full, of everything that just happened, of everything we didn’t have words for.

The vermillion still sat faintly on my forehead, its weight far heavier than its presence.

The red thread sat on my wrist. I could still feel her fingertip against my skin, still hear her voice when she said my name to the priest.

“Vedant.”

I hadn’t planned this. Not the temple, not the thread, not the priest calling us "pati-patni."

And definitely not saying "mangetar hain meri."

I didn’t even know why I said it, it just… left my mouth like it belonged there, like she did.

And now she was sitting next to me, quietly holding the velvet box, her face turned away, but I could feel her spiraling.

I didn’t need her to speak to know that she was thinking too much.

So was I.

What was I supposed to do? Apologize for the priest’s blessing? For not correcting him sooner? For not wanting to?

I turned my head slightly, and watched the way the sunlight filtered over her profile. The red thread resting on her wrist, the same one on mine.

And for a second... I let myself wonder what it would feel like if it hadn’t been a coincidence, if this hadn’t just happened, if it had been a choice.

Mine.

Hers.

Ours.

But I didn’t say a word, because whatever I was feeling, it wasn’t part of the plan. And with her, nothing ever stayed where I meant to leave it.

I should’ve started the car, should’ve reached for the key, gripped the wheel, done something ordinary, anything to bring us back to a solid ground.

But I couldn’t. Because the air was heavy, laced with everything we hadn’t meant to step into.

I stared straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing. I could feel her beside me, not moving, not speaking, but present.

And then quietly, so quietly I almost missed it, she said, “I didn’t come here for this.”

And she said it like an apology, like the moment had slipped too far, like her heart was somewhere else entirely, tugging at her ribs with guilt she couldn’t name.

There was no anger in her voice, just the quiet ache of someone trying to explain that this wasn’t what she meant to leave behind.

I didn’t look at her, but something in me clenched. I exhaled slowly. “I know.” It was all I could manage.

“I came for Misha,” she added, still not looking at me. “I didn’t want to… involve you. Or us. Or whatever this is.”

Us.

The word hung in the air like a bruise. I finally turned my head.

She was staring out the window, lashes lowered, mouth set in that stubborn line she always wore when she was trying to stay unaffected.

But her hands, they were clenched too tightly around that box.

I wanted to say something to ease whatever ache I’d left in her with my silence, my presence, my existence.

But I didn’t know how, so I started the car, the engine came to life, loud against the quiet.

And as I pulled away from the temple, I knew, this silence between us wasn’t over.

The road stretched ahead, but I barely registered it. Red lights, green lights, lanes, honks, just noise, background static.

The real storm was in the passenger seat. She hadn’t said another word since the car started. I hadn’t asked for one.

But her silence was louder now, less tense, more... distant. She was trying to fold back into herself, shrink out of the moment that had wrapped too tightly around us.

And I hated how familiar that felt because I’d done it too, countless times. With people, with expectations, with myself.

But watching her do it now, after what we just shared in that temple, intentional or not, felt worse.

Because I couldn’t ignore how easily we’d stepped into something we couldn’t step out of.

The priest hadn’t blessed her.

He hadn’t blessed me.

He’d blessed us.

And no matter how quietly I sat here, hands firm on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, I couldn’t stop feeling it.

And the truth was... I didn’t know what scared me more, the fact that it had happened, or the fact that a part of me didn’t regret it.

I glanced at her briefly, she was staring out the window, her reflection faint in the glass, but her thoughts screaming in every line of her face.

She was somewhere else, not here.

I turned back to the road, gripped the wheel tighter and kept driving like the distance would undo whatever had just been done.

🪔

The car eased to a halt in the driveway, headlights pooling softly over the gravel.

6:45.

Fifteen minutes before the house behind us would erupt into music and balloons and voices calling Misha’s name.

I moved to open the car door, my hand was halfway to the handle, when I felt it.

A light, hesitant touch on my forearm. I looked down to see her hand wrapped around mine like a question she didn’t know how else to ask.

I froze.

She didn’t let go immediately, didn’t look me in the eye either. But something about the way her fingers curled slightly against my sleeve held me still.

I didn’t move.

She didn’t speak, just inhaled, then exhaled with the kind of breath that came after arguing with yourself.

And then in a quiet, careful voice, like it had to climb over something inside her just to be said.

“Can you… record something for me?”

She said it like she was expecting me to say no.

I blinked and turned my head. She was still holding on, still not quite meeting my eyes.

I didn’t know what she meant, but I nodded anyway.

She reached behind her and pulled a small paper bag in her lap, then she took out the softest thing I’d seen all day.

A tiny brown teddy bear, ears slightly floppy and rounded arms that looked like they were stitched for hugging.

She flicked a switch at the back and a small red light blinked on.

“It has a recorder inside,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper now.

“I bought it for Misha today. I don’t want her to press play and hear nothing."

She paused.

“I want it to carry a voice, a voice she knows, a voice she loves...”

She turned to me then, finally meeting my eyes. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

“Will you say something for her?”

That was it, so simple, but her asking... wasn’t. And I... I didn’t know what to do with that look in her eyes.

I stared at the bear.

Something for Misha, something she’d play on loop, something she’d hold close while she slept.

And Diya, she wanted it to be my voice?

I didn’t say anything right away, not because I was going to refuse but because I was suddenly... aware.

Of the softness in her tone, of the trust it took to ask me this, of the irony.

Because who's going to tell her?

That Misha, that little girl with stars in her eyes, probably loved her more than she’d ever love me.

That her voice was the one Misha would reach for in a room full of noise. Who’s going to tell her that Misha already adores her more than me?

That she is the comfort this teddy will never replace? That Misha cried less when she held her.

That her giggle sounded different when she was the one playing peekaboo.

I didn’t say any of that, I couldn’t bring myself to say no. So I reached for the bear slowly.

Took it from her hands, pressed the record button, waited for the small, blinking red light.

And then—

“Happy birthday, Mishki,” I said quietly, the recorder's red light blinking back at me like it understood the weight of the moment.

Diya sat beside me, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze somewhere far off. But I knew she was listening.

“E-dant loves you,” I continued, my voice softer than I knew it could go. “So much that it almost doesn’t fit inside me sometimes.”

I glanced down at the bear in my hand, ridiculous little thing with a crooked cherry red bow and floppy ears.

She’d love it. Probably chew it, definitely drool on it and hug it till it lost stuffing.

“You’re one today,” I murmured. “That’s a big number when your legs are still figuring out how walking works. Big milestone, Mishki. One whole year of being the most loved human in every room.”

Recording this was overwhelming. Especially with her sitting beside me, listening but pretending not to.

I continued.

“This bear... when you press its tummy or bow, you’ll hear me. Not because I think I sound cool or anything,” I muttered, “but because I want you to know I’m here. Always. Even when I’m not in the room.”

Then I paused. My thumb traced the curve of the recorder button like it’d help me say this next part right.

“So when bedtime feels too quiet or the day's too big or you just want a voice that loves you without needing anything back... press the button, Mishki.”

My voice dropped almost instinctively.

“You are so, so loved. More than words. More than this world. You’re our silly little star, shining bright even with mashed banana on your face."

My voice faltered.

I clicked the button again, the light faded, the recording was saved.

Silence slipped back in, the kind of quiet that said she didn’t know how to respond. And maybe I didn’t know either.

Because as she tucked the bear back into the box, I watched her fingers hesitate at the lid, like she didn’t want to shut it.

So I looked away, heart thudding too loud for a man who’d just spoken thirty seconds into a stuffed animal.

Our eyes met, there was something in hers that made my chest feel too small.

Something that felt like a thank you and something that felt like guilt or maybe something scarier.

But she said nothing, neither did I.

The car door closed softly behind me.

Diya stepped out first, her hands gripping the gift bags tighter than necessary and she didn’t even seem to notice.

But I did.

I noticed the way her fingers curled too firmly around the handles, like she was grounding herself.

I stood still for a second, not out of hesitation but out of awareness. Because this was her first time here.

In this house, my house. The one she’ll step into again, not as a guest but as someone it will soon call its own.

A home she didn’t choose, a life she didn’t plan and yet… here she was,

standing at its threshold like the walls were already adjusting to her presence.

Not mine, not yet, maybe never. But something about her being here felt like the house already knew.

And suddenly, that felt like… too much.

I didn’t rush, didn’t call her name, didn’t reach for her bags or ask if she was okay.

I just let her walk ahead because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about her, it’s that she moves on her own terms, even when she doesn’t know where she’s going.

Her gaze lifted to the house, and I noticed that pause, that flicker in her eyes she didn’t even try to hide.

And how could she? The house looked like it was getting married.

Fairy lights wrapped around the balcony like bangles, marigold garlands arched over the gate, even the windows glowed differently tonight.

It wasn’t just decorated, it was dressed, as if the walls already knew she’d be coming back in six days, not with gifts in her hand, but with vermillion in her parting and her name carved beside mine.

It looked like the kind of house that was getting ready to welcome a bride.

But inside, it was still Misha’s night. Laughter floated through the open doors, faint music played somewhere in the background.

Balloons swayed near the ceiling, there were snacks laid out on the table, and warmth in the air.

It should’ve felt warm and inviting but for her, it was a threshold, a line she hadn’t crossed before.

And she paused there, just long enough for me to notice, for my chest to tighten.

I moved then, quietly stepping past her, rounding to the front just enough to lead.

It wasn’t about guiding her, not really. It was about giving her a reason to follow, giving her time.

She was still behind me, a few steps slower and I felt it too, the hesitation in her walk. It wasn't fear or discomfort, it was just... unfamiliarity.

Like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be here, like she didn’t know what version of herself to bring through that door.

I wanted to say something, a quiet reassurance, a small nudge. But the words felt too loud for a moment this delicate.

So I stayed silent, let her find her way in, the way she always does.

She took a breath, one I felt in my own chest, and stepped forward, crossed the threshold like it was something sacred.

I walked a half step ahead of her as we moved through the entryway, not to lead, not really, just enough space so she didn’t feel watched, so she could look around without feeling like she had to react.

I kept my pace steady and unhurried, let her breathe, let her pretend it wasn’t a big deal, even though we both knew it was.

I didn’t offer some awkward welcome or reassurance, but I made sure the lights weren’t too bright, made sure the silence was gentle, made sure she didn’t have to ask where to go, because I was already carving the path for her.

Everyone noticed her and like waves lapping the shore, warm, constant, impossible to stop, they pulled her into their laughter, their chatter, their effortless ease.

Her eyes scanned the room, polite smiles, unfamiliar voices, too many faces in too little space. And then they found him.

Dadu.

Cross legged on the lounge chair like always, palms resting on his knees, his presence as steady and familiar as a childhood lullaby.

He wasn’t laughing like the others, just quietly watching.

And God, the way she looked at him, like the ground had finally stopped moving, like she didn’t have to perform anymore.

Her whole face shifted, the stiffness left her shoulders and for the first time since we walked in, she looked... home.

She walked toward him without saying a word, no hesitation, just something gentle in her steps, like her feet knew the way.

And Dadu’s face lit up in a way that had nothing to do with birthday balloons or cake.

The bags stayed clutched in her hand, but her other moved on instinct, reaching down toward his feet with that quiet reverence only she ever showed.

“No,” his voice came gentle and certain. “Told you, daughters don't touch feet.”

Her hand stilled mid air, and then came that smile, wide and quiet all at once. Not the smile she gave the world, the one she saved for him.

“How are you?” she asked, her voice softer now, lined with a care that felt lived in.

“I'm old,” he said, with a huff of amusement.

Diya shook her head, that same stubborn tilt she probably had since she was four.

“You’re still as young as you were nineteen years ago,” she said, lips tugging upward.

“Really?” His face lit up, like the years between them had never passed.

Diya nodded, small and eager nod, like a child being trusted with a secret.

And he laughed, freely. I haven't seen him laugh like that since the day he came out of that hospital.

“How are you beta? How's work?” he asked, so casually, like he hadn’t been quietly tracking every detail of her life through half told stories and secondhand updates.

She blinked like she hadn’t expected the question to come from anyone today.

Then she nodded again. “Everything is good Dadu.”

They slipped into conversations like they’d never stopped, laughed in that easy, familiar way that softened the air around them.

Like the room faded, like the world had shrunk down to just the two of them, her and the one person who had always held space for her without needing her to shrink.

And I stood there, just... watching.

Watching her laugh freely and openly with no edges, watching Dadu look at her like she was still four.

It hit me then, this wasn’t just nostalgia. This was home and maybe... the only part of her that had never learned how to hide.

Then Tanya swooped in, all bright smiles and warm energy.

She threw her arms around Diya with the kind of welcome that said you’re one of us now.

“Thank you for coming!” she smiled.

The living room looked exactly like I thought it would: cushions scattered with loving chaos, in one corner, balloons floated lazily, gold letters reading “Happy Birthday Misha” swayed softly, like the house itself was humming.

Diya sat on the couch between Dadu and Tanya, her posture relaxed but eyes scanning the room quietly, until it happened.

A squeal, pure and high slicing right through the buzz of conversation.

“E-YAA!”

Misha came barreling toward us in Atharv’s arms, her tiny feet kicking mid air, trying desperately to escape.

Pink tulle fluttered with every movement, her dress a whirl of frills and sparkles, with tiny butterfly wings stitched onto the back and a star wand clutched proudly in one hand.

She leaned forward, arms outstretched toward Diya like gravity itself was pulling her there. Urging Atharv with impatient little noises, her whole body tilting, ready to leap.

And Atharv defeated, smiling, walked her closer.

Diya opened her arms gently, already leaning forward, waiting.

The moment they were close enough, Misha launched right out of Atharv’s arms, straight into Diya’s.

A soft thud, a tangle of limbs, and then stillness. Misha buried her face in Diya’s neck like it was instinct, like she remembered it.

Her arms clung tight around Diya’s shoulders, wand digging harmlessly into her back, wings fluttering behind her like she'd finally landed where she belonged.

Diya didn’t say anything at first, she just held her. One arm wrapped securely around that tiny frame, the other brushing Misha’s soft curls down.

Then Misha peeked up, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the excitement.

Diya smiled, tender and full. “Happy birthday, Misha,” she whispered and kissed her forehead softly.

Without missing a beat, Misha chirped back, "Happy birthday E-yaa!” A little off but still perfect.

She’d been repeating it to everyone who wished her since morning. Only this time, it meant something different.

Diya blinked, caught off guard for a second. Then she chuckled, that amused glint softening her features.

“Who told you my name?” she asked, brushing a curl away from Misha’s cheek.

Misha didn’t answer right away.

She just grinned, wide, wicked. A little too pleased with herself, wand in hand, mischief in her eyes, like she was about to change lives.

She tapped it gently against Diya’s shoulder, like she was about to grant a wish or unleash a bomb.

And right then, deep in my gut, I knew.

God I knew.

No. No. No.

A breath caught at the base of my throat.

My spine stiffened instinctively, like I could hold the moment still if I just sat still enough.

I didn't even need to hear it, I could feel the betrayal building in her tiny lungs.

Don't, not here, not now.

Misha please be mysterious, be blissfully vague, just pretend you forgot, point at the cake, babble something, bite the wand, say “balloon,” anything but the truth.

But mercy? Yeah she wasn't build with that.

She straightened up in Diya's arms, grinning like she'd just solved a riddle.

Turned toward her, loud and proud—

“E-dant!”

...Traitor.

The room went silent then lit up with laughter, teasing, amused gasps, grins exchanged across couches.

Tanya laughed somewhere near the couch. Atharv’s eyes lit up like this was the best drama he’d seen in weeks. Like Misha had just dropped confetti on everyone.

And Diya? She went still. Then turned her head slowly, eyes meeting mine and I couldn’t look away, didn’t even try to.

Because yeah, I was done. I was utterly exposed.

She didn’t know how many times Misha had pointed at her face in our engagement photo, and asked, “Name?”

Eyes wide with curiosity.

Didn’t know how many times I’d said her name like it was just another word, like it didn’t do things to me every time it left my mouth.

“Diya,” I’d say.

Sometimes softly, like I was afraid someone would hear, sometimes without thinking, like it was the easiest truth I knew.

And she’d try it out. Over and over.

“Eya?”

“E-diya?”

"E-yaa?"

And I’d smile. “Close enough.”

God, I was so done.

Misha had learned it, memorized it, worn it like a badge. And now she’d handed it back to Diya, with my name wrapped around it like a ribbon.

I sat frozen in the aftermath. Laughter still lingered around the room, but none of it touched me.

Because what would she think? That I said her name out loud when she wasn’t around? That I helped a toddler memorize her name when i myself have never uttered it in front of her?

She didn’t say anything, neither did I.

And Misha, utterly unaware of the explosion she’d just caused, snuggled deeper into Diya’s neck, her little hands gripping her tight like she’d found her whole world.

🪔

The living room buzzed with low chatter and bursts of laughter as the cake was carried in.

Two tiers of soft pink and cream, edged with clouds of frosting, topped with a tiny sugar figure that looked suspiciously like Misha with a crown tilted sideways.

Everything softened.

Misha stood on the couch with Tanya holding one hand and Atharv the other.

A single candle, shaped like the number one, stood proudly at the center of the cake.

Its tiny flame flickered to life, casting a soft golden glow just as the lights around dimmed, like the world had paused to celebrate Misha.

“Ready?” Tanya whispered.

“Cake!” she squealed, as if she’d summoned it into existence.

Everyone sang, loudly. Off key but full of love. The candle blew out with more spit than breath. Laughter broke around the room, someone cheered, but my eyes went to them.

Tanya’s hands were still mid clap, eyes glassy, like her heart couldn’t quite contain the moment.

Atharv stood frozen for a second, then let out this shaky breath and laughed, wiping at his cheek like he hadn’t just teared up over a candle.

First birthdays hit different when it’s your kid, I guess. There was something raw in their joy. It made me look away for a second longer than I meant to.

Then came the cake feeding ritual.

Tanya handed Misha the first bite of cake, loaded and wobbling on a tiny spoon. Misha blinked down at it like it held the secrets of the universe, then turned straight to Diya.

Of course.

She lifted the spoon, ready to feed her like she was the guest of honour. But Diya, ever so gently, reached forward and curled her fingers around Misha’s little hand, guiding it sideways, toward Tanya.

No words, just that soft, silent gesture that said enough. Tanya stilled for a second, something flickered on her face, like the moment caught her off guard.

She smiled warmly.

Misha, oblivious to the weight she was carrying in that tiny hand, fed her mother with the same serious focus she’d had a second ago.

Tanya smiled through it, she pulled Misha into her arms, pressing a kiss into her hair and holding her just a second longer than usual.

Diya was watching them, her smile small and aching, like the moment had brushed against something tender and hidden inside her.

There was a stillness to her, as if she was holding her breath, not wanting to disturb the softness unfolding in front of her.

And me? I didn’t mean to feel anything. But there it was anyway, tight in my chest, refusing to be ignored.

Tanya kept handing Misha a fresh spoon of cake for every person.

She took a spoon and turned to Atharv, voice high and sure. “Papa,” she squealed, just that one word but it echoed somewhere deep in me.

A word so small, yet it cracked something open. My heart felt full in a way that was hard to name, like I was watching something too pure, too big for a room this small.

Atharv laughed, the kind of laugh that had pride stitched into every note. He looked at her like nothing in the world could touch her, his eyes soft, his chest puffed just enough to give away the truth.

He was gone for his daughter. He looked every bit of a father who'd just been handed the moon. A look of a man who'd never need another achievement in life.

She fed him the cake like it was a serious task, and he played along, beaming like she’d handed him a Michelin star dessert.

And then came Dadu, leaning down for his bite, but pressing a kiss to Misha’s cheek instead, gentle, almost sacred. Like she was the best thing he'd ever been given.

Misha turned again, fresh spoon of cake in hand, her eyes landing on Diya.

"E-yaa" she called, in that clumsy, perfect way only she could.

This time, Diya didn’t deflect, didn’t guide her hand elsewhere.

Misha held the spoon up with all the seriousness in the world, like this was her mission, her moment.

And Diya... she leaned in, but only just. Took the tiniest nibble, barely a taste, almost hesitant.

Like she wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of something so... pure. Like the kindness startled her.

"Thankyou princess." she said in the softest voice and then fixed Misha's crown.

And I swear, something in the air changed. Subtle, but undeniable because Misha turned, straight toward me.

That same spoon still in her tiny hand, the one Diya had taken a shy little nibble from, barely disturbing the frosting.

It was still almost whole, still soft with her touch, still too full of something I wasn’t ready to name.

Tanya moved slightly, maybe to offer her a clean one, but Misha was already on her way. Focused and sure footed in that wobbly toddler way.

And when she stopped in front of me, her whole face lit up like she was handing me the moon.

“E-dant,” she said, like she’d been waiting for this all day.

My throat tightened.

Diya sat across the room, still as stone, hands folded in her lap like she didn’t know what to do with them, like she didn’t expect this either.

But Misha waited, eyes wide and hopeful, that spoon held up.

So I leaned in, took what was left, just a smear of frosting. Barely a taste but it landed heavy. Sweet and tense and confusing, like something had slipped through the cracks and made itself at home in my chest.

Misha laughed, proud of her little mission, and toddled off like nothing had happened.

The room picked up again, music, voices, everything moving normally except me. I was still standing there, heart doing things it wasn’t supposed to do.

🪔

Then came the avalanche of gifts. A riot of colors, boxes ripped open, dolls with blinking eyes, clunky building blocks, a tiny piano that made more noise than music.

Misha… wasn’t impressed, not really. Her little hands poked, prodded, but that spark was missing.

Until Diya stepped forward with a small velvet box. “This one’s from me,” Diya said quietly.

Misha paused, no grabby excitement this time. She reached for it gently, like she knew this wasn’t just another toy to toss aside.

She opened it and there it was. An evil eye pendant, gold and small.

Not something you buy off a rack because it sparkles in the light. No, this... this was protection, a silent promise, something powerful woven into metal.

And for a moment, everything else— noise, people, laughter— just faded.

It was that pendant, the one she had cradled with both hands earlier today, like it carried weight beyond gold. The one she’d placed before the goddess, head bowed, lips moving in whispers too sacred to share.

She had offered it first, to faith, to protection, to something bigger than all of us.

She didn’t just buy it, she blessed it. Let her prayers soak into its metal, then brought it here, tied it with care, and placed it into Misha’s small, waiting hands.

And something in my chest shifted, because it reminded me of my pendant.

The one I found in my elevator, the one that shouldn't mean anything but somehow does, the one I slept better with, the one my fingers reach for when the world tilts sideways, the one that provides this strange, unexplainable comfort.

Only lately… I haven’t touched it, not as much. I don’t know why but the urge to reach for it has been decreasing day by day.

Misha meanwhile, was spinning, quite literally.

“Shinyyyyy!” she yelled, clutching the pendant like she’d just been handed the moon dipped in glitter.

Tanya stepped in, gently fastening it around her neck. And Diya? She just smiled like it was no big deal.

Then came the second gift. The bear: floppy, squishy and brown. Its face was lopsided in the most charming way, like it had already been loved.

Misha gasped like someone had brought her an A-list celebrity.

“MASHA AND THE BEARRRR!” she screeched, before launching herself onto it with the kind of pure joy adults spend decades trying to feel again.

The room cracked with laughter. Atharv muttered something about investing in earplugs.

And Diya, she didn’t laugh but she glowed. Just this quiet, radiant joy that settled over her like light on still water.

Misha was in love.

The bear became her world in thirty seconds flat. She dragged it across the floor, made it twirl, tossed it like it could fly, then hugged it like she’d never let go.

I watched her, half amused and half aching, until she accidentally hit the bow.

A red light blinked.

“Happy birthday, Mishki.”

My voice. Softer than I remembered.

Rougher, too. Like I’d meant every syllable but barely got them out.

“E-dant loves you…”

And then she stopped mid spin and the entire room seemed to hold its breath with her. Tiny fingers clutched the bear tighter.

Her eyes wide and shiny looked around, confused, like the voice had come from a dream.

Then she turned and looked at me.

“E-DANT!!!”

She shrieked my name like I was the magic. And then she ran, full throttle, bear squished in one arm, pendant swinging wildly on her chest like a tiny gold heartbeat.

Before I could even react she was there, small arms flung around me, the full force of her joy crashing into my chest.

I caught her instinctively, she clung tighter, buried her face into my shirt, like this was the safest place in her world.

And I... I held her closer.

The noise around us blurred. Tanya dabbed at her eyes, Dadu chuckled softly but none of it touched me.

Because when I looked up, Diya was already watching. She wasn't smiling just holding me in that quiet, unreadable gaze, like she saw something.

Misha was still in my arms when she looked up at me, eyes round, thoughtful, like something had just clicked into place.

“E-dant,” she said again, softer this time. Then tilted her head, blinking curiously.

“Gift?”

I smiled.

Didn’t answer right away, just reached into my pocket and pulled out a small black key— sleek, glossy, the Porsche emblem gleaming in the center like it knew it didn’t belong in toddler hands.

Her fingers curled around it like it was treasure, even though she had no clue what it meant. Still, she held onto it like it mattered.

“Come on,” I said, shifting her slightly in my arms. “Let me show you.”

The others followed, some amused, some suspiciously quiet. Diya trailed behind, like the moment wasn’t for her, like she wasn’t allowed in the part that felt like a little too much.

But Tanya didn’t let her retreat. She took her hand and pulled her forward.

The garage lights came on. Something was sitting in the middle under a cream cloth.

I set Misha down gently and crouched beside her.

“That one’s yours.”

She waddled toward it, key still clutched in her fist. Her little fingers tugged at the cloth, struggling with it.

I stepped in and helped her pull it away.

The cloth slipped off, there were gasps behind us but I didn’t care about them. I  only waited for Misha's reaction.

Because in front of her sat a Miniature Black Porsche Taycan Ride On Car— open roofed, luxe finish, custom number plate: MISHA01.

Scaled down to toddler size but still unapologetically luxurious.

And now hers.

She stared like it was magic, then turned to me, eyes wide. I lifted her into the driver’s seat.

She looked up through the open roof, gripped the steering wheel like she owned it, and then clapped, giggled and screamed.

“E-dant!”

I swear my chest almost cracked open.

I didn’t want to get her something that blended in. I wanted her to have something that stood out. That made her feel like she could take on the world, even if that world right now was just the living room carpet and the garden path.

I didn’t get her a pink one— not because pink was wrong. But because everything today was pink. I wanted this to be bold. To say: you’re different, and that’s power.

She didn’t ask questions, she just drove or well... pressed buttons and spun the wheel with unmatched authority.

But in her mind? She was already on the road.

The room was full of praise, but I didn’t hear any of it. Just her laughter, her joy, her head tilted back through the open roof.

And me?

I just stood there, hoping she never forgot what it felt like to hold something that made her feel capable.

Even if it was just a car that didn’t go past 5km/h.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐