She hated being called babe. Said it made her feel like an accessory. So somewhere in the first few years of our marriage, it changed — softened — into babo. A silly, affectionate nickname that belonged to us and no one else.
Today, years later, standing at our son’s wedding, I could only bring myself to call her by her name.
Anita.
She turned, smiling politely, and for a moment, time folded in on itself.
Anita looked radiant — elegant in a deep blue saree, her eyes calm, her hair slightly thinning, now streaked with silver that caught the light like quiet truth. There was still that trace of confidence, even charm — but the haughtiness I once accused her of was gone. In its place was a kind of peace I didn’t recognize.
When she’d walked out of my life, she was burning. Angry, loud, wounded, and cruel in all the ways that pain can be. She had sworn that I’d ruined her twenty-year marriage, that I was cold, selfish, incapable of love.
Maybe I was.
Now she had a new partner, a new job, and a new family orbiting around her. Time had taken its toll, but it had also given something back — perspective, perhaps. And me? I had learned to live with silence.
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Anita — Then
I first met Anita when we were both in our twenties. She was impossible not to notice — effervescent, sharp-tongued, always laughing, with beautiful brown eyes that seemed to see through you. She had a way of making the dullest room glow just by walking in.
She wasn’t beautiful in the movie sense of the word — she was better. She was alive.
Her laughter was quick, her comebacks quicker. Everyone wanted to be near her. I, on the other hand, wanted to be admired.
Back then, I thought love was a competition — of intellect, of wit, of who could speak last and be right. I was good at pretending to win arguments, and she was good at winning hearts.
When we married, she looked at me like I was her entire world. I remember that day — her eyes dancing, her hands trembling slightly as she said, Let’s promise one thing. No matter what, no anger carried to the next morning.
I nodded. I didn’t understand then how easy promises are when you’re happy.
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The First Cracks
In the early years, she was sunshine. She decorated our apartment with laughter, scented candles, and half-finished art projects. I remember how she’d sing while cooking, hair tied loosely, the smell of Indian masala spreading through the house.
But I… I was always looking elsewhere — toward success, ambition, a sense of control.
Her joy, her spontaneity — it unsettled me. When she cried, I called her dramatic. When she was quiet, I called her cold. And when she asked for more attention, I told her to grow up.
Slowly, I watched that vibrant, carefree girl become quieter. Her laughter turned into polite smiles, her curiosity into self-defense. I thought I was teaching her maturity.
In truth, I was dimming her light to make mine shine brighter.
And when resentment crept in, she began to fight back — with words sharp as glass. Our love story became a courtroom without a judge — just two lawyers arguing to be heard.
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The Breaking Point
It wasn’t one fight that ended us — it was the slow corrosion of kindness.
I remember one evening. She’d just come back from a long day at work, exhausted, hair tied up messily, still trying to talk to me about a project she was excited about.
But I was irritated — by work, by life, by the fact that her joy no longer included me.
Not now, Anita, I said. Can we just have peace for one night?
She looked at me then — eyes full of disbelief, lips trembling. Peace? she said softly. You mean silence.
That night she slept on the couch. The next week she stopped making coffee for me in the mornings. The week after, she stopped waiting up at night. And then, one morning, she was gone.
Left behind were her clothes, her books, and an echo of everything we hadn’t said.
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Aftermath
The first few months after she left were a blur of noise and emptiness. I filled my days with work, meetings, and late nights, as if exhaustion could silence guilt.
But the silence always found me — sitting in the half-lit kitchen, staring at two cups on the counter out of habit.
Her scent lingered for weeks: sandalwood and lavender. I told myself it would fade. It didn’t — it just became memory.
There were mornings when I’d wake up reaching for her by instinct, only to touch the cold sheet beside me. That’s when it sank in — not that she was gone, but that she wasn’t coming back.
And the cruelest part? I couldn’t even remember the last thing I’d said to make her smile.
That was my low point — not loneliness, but the realization that I’d earned it.
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Nine Years Later
Now, here we were again — sitting across from each other at our son’s wedding. She looked genuinely happy. Her new partner — Ashok — was kind, attentive, laughing with our son like he’d known him forever.
I thought it would hurt to see her like that, but strangely, it didn’t. Instead, I felt something I hadn’t in years — release.
Can you believe he’s married? she asked, smiling as our son twirled his bride on the dance floor. I’m still getting used to the fact that he shaves, I said.
That laugh. The same one that used to bounce through our house like sunlight.
Then she said quietly, You look well. Happier, even. I’ve learned to live lightly, I said. Stopped carrying things that don’t belong to me anymore. Like what? Like anger. Like… envy of the life I thought I should have had.
She looked down, turning her glass slowly. I carried those too, she said. For years. I thought my anger made me strong. It only made me tired.
We sat in silence, and I realized something — the woman sitting before me was not the Anita I once knew. This one was tempered by loss, wiser, freer.
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The Author’s Mirror
As I looked at her, I realized how much of our story had been about me. My pride, my success, my needs.
When she cried, I thought she was weak. When she shouted, I thought she was ungrateful. When she left, I thought she was cruel.
But she was just… human. And I had been too narcissistic to see that her anger came from pain I’d helped cause.
I used to envy her ability to connect with people — to laugh easily, to feel deeply. But envy is a cruel mirror. It shows you what you lack but blinds you to your own reflection.
Now, years later, I finally understood: anger and envy are emotions we keep polishing like rusted trophies of who hurt us most. We carry them as proof of being right — until they weigh us down so much we forget how to breathe.
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Reunion
Later that night, when the band slipped into an old Hindi love song, we drifted outside. The air was cooler now, fragrant with jasmine from the garden — the kind she used to braid into her hair. The moon hung low, brushing silver over the gravel path. For a moment, it felt like we’d stepped out of time — just the two of us again, walking side by side, our footsteps falling into a familiar rhythm.
She spoke first, her voice quiet enough to be mistaken for the wind. Do you ever think how things might’ve been if we’d just let go sooner? The pride, the anger… all of it?
I smiled, though my throat felt tight. Maybe we’d have had more good years. Or maybe we’d have learned this lesson later — when it hurt even more.
She laughed softly, then sighed. It took me years to stop resenting you. I thought forgiveness was about who deserved it. Turns out, it’s about who needs peace more.
Her voice wavered on that last word. I saw the reflection of the garden lights in her eyes — the same brown eyes that once made every argument feel like a battle worth losing. I wish I hadn’t carried that anger for so long, she said. It kept me company, but it never let me rest.
I nodded. Maybe that’s what life is — learning what not to carry.
She smiled then, tears trembling but unshed. Then maybe we’re finally getting it right.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel the need to fix the silence between us. I just stood beside her, letting it settle — soft, forgiving, and whole.
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The Goodbye That Wasn’t One
When it was time to leave, she hesitated at the doorway. The music inside had faded to a slow instrumental, and outside, the night hummed faintly with crickets and the smell of rain on warm stone.
She reached out — just a touch — her fingers brushing the back of my hand before resting there, light as memory. Take care, okay? she said, a hint of the old teasing in her voice. And don’t overthink everything like you used to.
I smiled. And you — don’t carry the world on your shoulders.
She tilted her head, the faint gold in her earrings catching the light. I only carry what matters now.
For a second, it felt like the years between us folded in half. Then she turned, her blue saree whispering against the gravel, and walked toward the waiting car. I watched her taillights fade into the darkness, the night suddenly too quiet.
And it struck me then — love doesn’t disappear; it changes form. It sheds its need to own or explain and becomes something simpler: recognition. The kind that asks for nothing but peace.
As I drove home through the sleeping city, the windshield misting with drizzle, I found myself smiling — without reason, without ache. Maybe this was what forgiveness felt like. Not forgetting. Not holding on. Just… carrying less.