The air in the Sharma household was thick with silence, the kind that settles after years of unspoken words. Manish Sharma, a lanky man in his late thirties, sat at the dining table, scrolling through his phone. His wife, Neeta, stood at the stove, stirring a pot of dal with mechanical precision.

The clink of the spoon against the steel was the only sound breaking the monotony of their evening. It had been twelve years since Neeta crossed the threshold of this home as a bride, her hands stained with alta, her heart brimming with dreams. Now, those dreams felt like distant echoes, drowned by the humdrum of routine.

Manish worked long hours at an accounting firm, his life a blur of spreadsheets and deadlines. Neeta, once a schoolteacher, had given up her job after their son, Aryan, was born. She now spent her days tending to the house, her world shrinking to the four walls of their modest Delhi apartment. Aryan, now ten, was at a friend’s place, leaving the couple alone—an occurrence that once sparked joy but now felt like a burden.

It started subtly, the drift. Manish began staying late at the office, claiming overtime. Neeta noticed the faint scent of jasmine perfume on his shirts, a fragrance she didn’t wear. She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. Instead, she buried herself deeper into her chores, polishing the house as if it could scrub away the growing distance between them.

At the office, Manish had found a confidante in Shalini, a new junior accountant. She was young, vibrant, and unmarried—a stark contrast to the quiet resignation that defined Neeta. Shalini laughed at his dry jokes, listened to his frustrations about tax codes, and soon, their conversations spilled beyond work.

A coffee here, a late-night chat there. Manish told himself it was harmless, a flicker of excitement in his otherwise gray life. But the flicker grew into a flame, and one evening, after a particularly long day, he crossed a line he hadn’t intended to. A kiss in the dimly lit parking lot, a moment of weakness that left him both exhilarated and ashamed.

Neeta sensed it, though she had no proof. The way Manish avoided her gaze, the way his phone buzzed more often, guarded by a password she didn’t know. She could have confronted him, demanded answers, but fear held her back. What if he admitted it? What if he left? She clung to the fragile shell of their marriage, hoping time would mend what words couldn’t.

One Saturday, Neeta decided to reclaim her home. She invited Manish’s colleagues for dinner, a grihpravesh of sorts—not for a new house, but for a marriage she refused to let crumble. She spent the day cooking—aloo matar, butter chicken, gulab jamun—dishes she hadn’t made in years. She wore her favorite green saree, the one Manish once said made her look like a heroine. When he came home, he was surprised but didn’t protest. “Shalini’s coming too,” he said casually, and Neeta’s heart sank. Still, she smiled and nodded.

The evening unfolded like a taut wire. The colleagues arrived, filling the house with chatter and laughter. Shalini walked in last, her youthful energy lighting up the room. She complimented Neeta’s cooking, her voice warm and disarming. Neeta watched her husband closely—his glances at Shalini, the way he lingered near her during conversations. It wasn’t overt, but it was enough to confirm her suspicions.

As the night wore on, Neeta excused herself to the kitchen, her hands trembling as she washed dishes. She overheard Shalini laughing at something Manish said, a sound that pierced her like a shard of glass. She could storm out, make a scene, but what would that achieve? Instead, she took a deep breath and returned with a tray of tea, her face a mask of composure.

Later, after the guests left, Manish sat on the couch, loosening his tie. Neeta stood at the threshold of the living room, watching him. “Did you enjoy the evening?” sheasked, her voice steady.He nodded, distracted. “Yeah, it was nice. Good food.”She stepped closer, her saree rustling softly. “Manish, I’m not blind. I see what’s happening.”He froze, his eyes darting to hers. “What do you mean?”“Don’t lie to me,” she said, her tone firm but calm. “I deserve better than that.”

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Finally, he sighed, rubbing his face. “It’s not what you think, Neeta. It’s just… I don’t know. I got lost somewhere.”She sat beside him, her hands clasped in her lap. “We both did. But this—” she gestured to the space between them—“this is our home. If you want to throw it away for a fling, that’s your choice. But I won’t let it slip without a fight.”

Manish looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in months. The fire in her eyes, the strength he’d forgotten she had. He thought of Shalini, the thrill of the new, but also the emptiness that followed. And then he thought of Neeta—the woman who’d built this life with him, brick by brick.“I don’t want to lose this,” he whispered, his voice breaking.“Then don’t,” she replied, placing a hand on his. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet. But it was a step, a tentative crossing of a new threshold—one they’d navigate together.