The other side of the door

mother struggling with her 4 children’s as her husband leave

“The Other Side of the Door”

There were four of them—Rehan, Zoya, Ayaan, and little Meenu. And there was Ma. Their small home no longer echoed with Papa’s laughter or the jingling of his keys at the door. He had gone to “another mother,” as Meenu innocently said, not understanding that he had chosen another life.

Ma worked at three houses now. In the mornings, she tied her sari in a hurry, stuffed stale chapatis in a tiffin, and kissed each child on the forehead before running to catch the 6:15 bus. Rehan, the eldest at 13, had stopped playing cricket and started learning how to fix things—fans, wires, even old phones—just to bring in a few rupees. Zoya helped with cooking and tutoring Meenu with her letters. Ayaan, just 8, kept quiet most of the time. He stared at the door often, as if waiting for it to open and undo the pain.

They learned quickly what survival meant. Rice stretched with more water. Uniforms passed down. Dreams trimmed and folded away like old clothes.

One evening, the rain came hard, and the power went out. Ma came home soaked and coughing. She had no strength left. Zoya lit a candle. Rehan brought warm water. Ayaan, for the first time, reached for her hand.

“Why did Papa leave us?” Meenu asked, curled into her mother’s side.

Ma’s voice cracked, but she didn’t cry. “Sometimes people forget what love is. But we won’t.”

That night, they huddled together on the floor, close as ever. The storm outside raged, but inside, something softened. There was pain, yes—but also strength, like roots digging deeper after a tree is struck.

The next day, Ma woke early. She made sweet tea, rare in their house now. “We’ll be okay,” she said, more to herself than to them.

And somehow, they were.