Chapter Eight: The Drop Between Two Worlds
496 Words
The office smelled of printer ink, reheated coffee, and anxiety. Anjali walked briskly through the corridor with her laptop bag slung across her shoulder, one eye on the time.
Her first day on-site.
She had worn her confidence like armor: blazer sharp, words rehearsed, Maahi’s lunch packed, after-school pickup arranged with a trusted neighbor.
Everything was ready. Everything had a plan.
Until everything didn’t.
---
That afternoon, as Anjali tried to make sense of a data migration task her team lead needed urgently, her phone buzzed.
3 missed calls from Mrs. Pinto
(The neighbor.)
And then a voice note from Maahi:
> “Mumma… you forgot to put my bunny in my backpack and now I can’t sleep at nap time and I cried and… I miss you... why do you have to go to work today…”
Anjali blinked hard, her screen blurring. She mumbled an excuse to the team and stepped into the restroom.
She didn’t cry.
She couldn’t afford to.
But the ache? The ache was loud.
---
That night, she came home to Maahi curled up in bed, eyes red and distant.
“I know you have to work,” Maahi whispered, refusing to look at her.
“I forgot the bunny.”
“It’s not just the bunny.”
Anjali sat down slowly beside her.
“Tell me.”
“I feel like I always come second now. After your calls. After your office. After your laptop.”
Anjali wanted to say That’s not true, but she stopped herself. Because sometimes, it was.
Instead, she took Maahi’s hand.
“Some days, you come second. And I hate that. But not because I love you less — because I’m trying to build a life where someday you’ll never come second to anyone. Not a husband. Not a system. Not even a passport.”
Maahi sniffled.
“I don’t want big dreams. I just want you.”
Anjali’s throat tightened.
“I’m sorry, Maahi. I’m learning too. I didn’t grow up watching women do both. I’m trying to become the mother you deserve… and the woman I promised myself I’d be. But I fail. A lot.”
Maahi turned into her arms.
“You’re still my favorite Mumma.”
Anjali smiled, holding her tight.
“And you’re still the reason I wake up after I fail.”
---
The next morning, Anjali emailed her manager:
> “I’d like to switch to hybrid mode for two weeks if possible. My daughter is adjusting, and I want to help her feel anchored as I return to full-time.”
Ada replied within ten minutes:
> “Of course. Take what you need. The work will wait. Your child won’t.”
---
Somewhere between late dinners and early alarms, Anjali slowly began to find a rhythm — not perfect, not balanced, but real.
Because motherhood wasn’t a performance.
It was a promise.
And she was still keeping it — even if she sometimes dropped the beat.
- Writer
