He told them their constant presence was suffocating us. That financial help didn’t entitle them to my pantry, my mail, or my privacy. That if they couldn’t respect boundaries, we’d build our own—brick by brick, paycheck by paycheck. It was the first time I’d seen him hold his ground.
We became the kind of couple with lists taped to the fridge. We sold the car. I picked up weekend shifts at a boutique. Aarav took late-night consulting gigs. We turned off the AC during the heatwave, canceled subscriptions, and learned how to stretch lentils and zucchini into three meals. It wasn’t glamorous. It was exhausting. But each payment chipped away at a weight I’d been pretending not to feel.
The house was quiet for a while. No surprise footsteps. No unsolicited advice. No curtain rods appearing unannounced. I rearranged my spices the way I liked them. I bought fresh flowers. I played music while I cooked and danced badly, and no one corrected the volume. One evening, I came home to find Aarav hanging a painting I’d picked up from a local artist. He stepped back, handed me the hammer, and said, “It finally feels like our home.” It did.
Six months later, a letter arrived in Priya’s careful handwriting. Not an apology exactly—more a confession dressed as explanation. She wrote about growing up in a house where involvement meant love, where privacy didn’t exist, where control was a form of care. She said she hadn’t realized how much she’d overstepped. It wasn’t everything I needed—but it was a start.
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