“Yes…”
That was the word I said, with my heart pounding, hands shaking, and fear crawling under my skin.
I was just 19. Standing behind the library building in college, cornered by Rana — the most powerful boy on our campus. He had a blade in his hand, eyes filled with madness.
“Say you love me, Shruthi. If you say no, I’ll cut my hand right now.”
I was terrified. I didn’t know what else to do.
So I said yes.
Not because I loved him.
But because I didn’t want to see blood.
Because I didn’t want to be the reason someone hurt themselves.
But that one yes… it ruined my entire life.
Rana was the son of a local MLA. Rich, aggressive, always with his gang. People feared him, even some teachers. I was an orphan. I had no one. I just wanted to study and live a peaceful life.
But after that day… There was no peace.
He started following me everywhere. Controlling everything. Who I talk to. What I wear. Where I go. I was scared every moment. But everyone said I was lucky — a powerful boy loved me.
They didn’t know it wasn’t love. It was fear. I was trapped.
Then one day, Rana said, “Let’s get married.”
I said, “Will your father allow it?”
He said, “I don’t care about him.”
And he didn’t. When his father, the MLA, shouted at him and threatened to throw him out, he left the house. Just like that.
We got married in a small temple, just two witnesses. No friends, no family. I thought maybe now he would change. That maybe marriage would make him softer, more loving.
At first, things were okay. We moved into a small apartment. I cooked, cleaned, waited for him to come home. He was always busy — meetings, politics, late nights.
Then one day, I found out I was pregnant. I was scared, but somewhere inside, I also felt a little happy. Maybe this child would give us a new start.
But Rana didn’t change. In fact, he became more distant. More cold. We started fighting. I cried alone most nights.
Then his father fell seriously ill. On his deathbed, he called Rana.
“If you want to protect my name, marry Rameshwar Rao’s daughter. She’s rich, from a political family. You’ll go far with her.”
I thought Rana would say no.
But he didn’t.
He came home, put divorce papers in front of me, and said, “This is not personal. It’s political. I have no choice.”
I begged him. “Rana… please. I’m carrying your child.”
He looked down. Said nothing.
I signed. I didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.
A few weeks later, I saw his wedding photo in the newspaper. Standing with his new wife, smiling, as if I never existed.
I gave birth to our daughter alone in a government hospital. No one by my side. No one to hold my hand. Only pain, and a newborn in my arms.
From that day on, I lived only for her.
I worked during the day — in offices, tuition, typing. I did stitching at night. Whatever work came, I took. I ate one meal a day, so she could have three. I never bought new clothes, but I bought her books, toys, school uniforms.
She smiled when she called me “amma.” That was my only joy. My only reason to breathe.
But at night… when she slept, I cried into my pillow. Alone, broken, empty.
I never told her about her father. She never asked.
One day, years later, I met an old friend from college — Deepa. We spoke over tea. Laughed a little. And then she said something that froze my heart.
“You know, Rana once proposed to me too. Said the same thing — he’d cut his throat if I said no. I didn’t care. I went straight to the principal and his father. He left me alone after that. Then… he started following you.”
I stared at her.
“You mean… he would’ve left me too… if I had said no?”
She looked down, guilty. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I said nothing. I just walked home in silence.
That night, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and cried harder than I ever had in years. Not because he left me. Not because I was alone.
But because I finally realized the truth.
I wasn’t special.
I wasn’t loved.
I was just… scared. And I said yes.
That one yes… changed everything.
It rained that night. I sat near the window, watching the water hit the glass, holding my pain in silence.
Suddenly, I heard a small voice.
“Amma… why are you crying?”
It was my daughter, half-asleep, standing near the door in her nightdress. Her little feet cold on the floor.
I quickly wiped my tears.
“Nothing, kanna. Just remembered something.”
She came closer and hugged me.
“You’re the best amma. Don’t cry, okay?”
I hugged her tightly. Pressed her soft head into my shoulder.
And in that moment… I realized something else.
That yes broke me.
But this little girl… made me whole again.
She was the only yes I never regretted...
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