No one in our family ever imagined that a night meant for happiness would begin with fear.
My father’s name is Rajendra. He turned sixty that year. In Jaipur, sixty is an age that sits quietly between youth and old age — no longer ambitious, but not yet fragile. His hair had grown mostly gray, his back slightly bent, yet his eyes remained clear and calm, the same eyes that had watched over us since childhood.
My mother died of cancer when my sister and I were still in college. During those long hospital months, my father never left her side. When she finally passed away, he stood by her bed for a long time, holding her hand, as if refusing to accept that warmth could disappear so suddenly.
After the funeral, relatives and neighbors offered endless advice.
“Rajendra, you’re still young. You should marry again.”
“A house needs a woman.”
My father only smiled gently and replied,
“I’ll think about it once my children are settled.”
And he kept his word.
For more than twenty years, he lived alone in our old house in Jaipur. He worked, cooked for himself, watered the plants, practiced yoga, and read in the evenings. No woman ever entered his life again. Being a father filled every empty space he had.
When my sister got married and I found a stable job in Delhi, the house grew unusually quiet. My father called us often. His voice was cheerful, but sometimes there were long pauses between his sentences — pauses heavy with something unspoken.
Then, one early winter day, he called us with a voice I had not heard in years — excited, almost shy.
“I’m thinking of getting married,” he said.
My sister and I froze.
“Her name is Meera.”
Meera was thirty — thirty years younger than my father.
My first reaction was fear. A gap like that invites suspicion. I imagined manipulation, money, loneliness disguised as affection. But my father spoke slowly, carefully, as if he had rehearsed every word.
Meera worked as an accountant at a company near his home. She was divorced, had no children. They met in a yoga class meant for middle-aged people. What began as polite greetings turned into long conversations about health, books, and life.
“She knows everything about your mother,” my father said. “I told her everything.”
We met Meera several times before the wedding.
She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, but she had a softness that put people at ease. She spoke gently, never too familiar, never evasive under our questioning eyes. When she looked at my father, there was clear respect in her gaze.
After many sleepless nights, my sister and I agreed.
The wedding took place on a spring morning, in the courtyard of an old house on the outskirts of Jaipur. There was no loud music, no grand decorations — only simple food, close relatives, and my father’s old friends.
Meera wore a pale pink saree. Her hair was neatly tied, her face lightly made up. My father looked nervous, smiling constantly, adjusting his scarf like a young man marrying for the first time.
That evening, after everything was cleaned up, the atmosphere in the house felt strangely unfamiliar. My sister joked,
“Dad, don’t make too much noise. There are young and old people in this house.”
He laughed and waved his hand.
“Nonsense.”
Then he led Meera into the bridal room — my parents’ old bedroom.
The room had barely changed since my mother’s death. The wooden wardrobe, the wide bed, the window where she used to sit and read. We had suggested renovating it, but my father had only changed the curtains.
“Keeping it the same comforts me,” he said.
Night fell quickly.
About an hour after everyone had gone to sleep, I heard a faint sound from the hallway. At first, I thought it was a stray cat. Then it turned into sobbing.
And then — a scream.
A scream sharp with terror.
“No! Please… don’t do this!”
My heart stopped.
My sister and I ran toward my father’s bedroom. From inside came crying mixed with panic. I pushed the door open.
I was frozen by what I saw.
Meera sat curled on the bed, clutching her head, tears streaming down her face. My father stood a short distance away, his face pale, his hands trembling.
“What happened?” I shouted.
Meera looked at us, her eyes filled with fear, then slowly with pain.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t bear this room.”
It took a long time for us to understand.
When the door closed, when the yellow light illuminated the old furniture, Meera felt she couldn’t breathe. On the wall still hung my parents’ wedding photo. On the dressing table lay my mother’s old wooden comb.
“I feel like I’m intruding on something sacred,” she said. “Like I’m a replacement.”
She confessed that her first marriage ended because she couldn’t have children. Her ex-husband made her feel incomplete, like someone filling a space meant for another woman.
And in that room, all those memories returned.
My father sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I only thought keeping this room would help me remember your mother. I didn’t think about how it would make you feel.”
The wedding night ended in silence.
Meera slept in another room. My father stayed alone in the old bedroom until dawn.
The next morning, he gathered us.
“I was wrong,” he said. “Some memories should not trap the living.”
A few days later, the room was completely renovated. The old photos were carefully stored away. Not to forget my mother — but to make space for a new chapter.
The true twist came months later.
One evening, Meera handed me a medical file. Her head was lowered.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she said softly. “The doctors say I may not have much time. I have a congenital heart condition.”
She hadn’t married my father for money.
Nor out of loneliness.
She wanted a family — even if only for a short while.
My father had known from the beginning.
“I don’t need someone for a lifetime,” he told us. “Just someone sincere for whatever time remains.”
Three years later, Meera passed away on a quiet morning.
This time, my father cried.
But he did not break.
He had learned that love is not measured by time, but by presence.
And that old room — now filled with light.