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Eshani was now a year old, and I often joked that Mrityunjay had become more of a full-time father than I was a mother. Every morning, while I got ready for work, I watched him from the mirror as he sat cross-legged on the bed, trying to tie Eshani's soft brown hair into two little ponytails that never really stayed in place. He'd frown in concentration, she'd giggle at his failed attempts - and somehow, my day would already feel lighter.
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The palace echoed with her laughter now. She had just learned to take her first, unsteady steps - and of course, they were always toward him. He'd kneel on one knee, arms wide open, cheering her on like she was walking on clouds.
Whenever I missed any of her milestones - and there were a few, thanks to meetings and work - my phone would light up with pictures or videos he'd sent me, usually captioned with something teasing. When he was away, I did the same. We didn't need to say it aloud, but it was our quiet rhythm - love shared in small, ordinary ways.
Her first word had been "Maa." I wasn't there when she said it, but when my phone buzzed during a meeting and I saw the video - Mrityunjay's voice in the background, laughing, "I won! She said 'Maa' first!" - I couldn't stop smiling. I knew it wasn't about winning. He had seen my midnight breakdowns, my silent fears of failing as a mother. And hearing her say that one word had soothed both of us.
A few evenings later, I was trying to feed Eshani vegetable soup. She wrinkled her nose dramatically, turning her head away.
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