Later that evening, after wiping sticky jam from the curtains, retrieving crayons from the fishbowl, and threatening to retire from motherhood forever, Aadhya finally managed to wrestle both her boys-one toddler by age, the other by mental regression-into their pajamas and onto the bed.
She sat cross-legged, exhaustion clinging to her like a shawl, hair frizzy from the day's chaos. Ivaan curled into her left side, clutching his favorite monkey plushie, and Rudra dramatically flopped onto her right like a giant baby panda, hugging a teddy bear half its fluff gone from being squished all day.
Each story I write is a quiet labor of love — built word by word, heart to heart. Your support not only honors the effort behind every chapter but also empowers me to create more deeply, more often. If my writing has lingered in your thoughts, moved your heart, or brought you joy, consider becoming a part of this journey. Every contribution is a silent applause that helps the next story come to life.
Write a comment ...