A Mother's Decision

A short story-A young expecting mother finds her carefully planned future suddenly rewritten when life presents her with both its greatest gift and most daunting challenge.

A woman's beauty is at its peak twice in her life – when she is in love and when she is pregnant. Charu had heard this saying from her mother and now, feeling the life growing inside her, she understood its truth.

Catching her reflection in the bedroom mirror, she noticed a radiance that surpassed even that magical day during their honeymoon when she had emerged from the shower in her yellow sari with the red border, her wet hair cascading down her shoulder, the red bindi perfect on her forehead. Atish had stared at her then as if seeing a goddess incarnate.

Nine months pregnant now, she still caught him looking at her that way.

She felt his presence before she saw him, his face coming close to breathe her in. Charu playfully pushed him away.

"I can't wait. Three more days. How do the doctors know the right day? It could be a day or two early. Can't it?" she asked, rubbing her swollen belly.

"They say the first one is usually late rather than early," Atish replied, his voice gentle.

Charu sighed. "I hope not. I don't think I can last another week."

"You shouldn't be doing anything," he said, taking the dishes from her hands and guiding her to the sofa.

"It is hard to pass time without doing anything. There is nothing to watch on TV here either. At least in India I could watch TV serials."

"How about reading books we got from the library? The child in the womb can understand whatever the mother is reading," Atish suggested.

"I don't like books, you know that. If we had this baby in India we wouldn't have this problem. There is always someone to talk to. My mother would have come. You wouldn't have to wash dishes."

"You know why we are having the baby in Australia," Atish replied with a deep breath.

Charu nodded silently. She knew. For opportunity, for a different life, for their child's future. She hadn't complained when they moved to this foreign country, leaving behind her large family home for a modest apartment. She hadn't complained about the loneliness, the unfamiliar food, the strange accents that sometimes still confused her. Atish worked so hard at the university, and she took pride in being the wife he needed—supportive, uncomplaining, strong.

In her private thoughts, Charu imagined their child—a son, she was certain—growing up speaking English without an accent, excelling in school like his father. She pictured herself walking him to school, teaching him Hindi at home, ensuring he knew his heritage while embracing his Australian future. She would be the bridge between two worlds for him.

The hospital room was cold. Charu shivered despite the blanket the nurse had draped over her shoulders. Three days after giving birth, she still hadn't held her son properly. Arjun lay in the incubator, tiny and vulnerable, with tubes and sensors attached to his delicate body.

"The MRI confirms cerebral palsy. It appears to be moderate to severe," Dr. Stanton had told them that morning, her kind eyes unable to soften the blow of her words.

Charu stared at her baby, trying to reconcile the child before her with the one she had imagined for nine months. The son who would someday walk confidently into school, who would make friends easily, who would perhaps become a mathematician like his father.

"What did we do wrong?" she whispered when Atish knelt beside her chair.

"Nothing. We did nothing wrong. The doctor said it could happen to anyone," he replied, taking her cold hands in his.

But Charu couldn't accept this. There must have been something—some food she ate, some medication she took, some sign she missed. As the eldest daughter in her family, she had always been responsible, always careful. How could she have failed her son before he was even born?

"But why us? Why our Arjun?" The tears finally came, hot and relentless, the first she had allowed herself since the diagnosis.

Atish had no answer. She saw him struggle for words, this brilliant man who always had solutions, who could solve complex equations but was now as lost as she was.

Their Melbourne apartment felt alien when they finally brought Arjun home. Charu moved through the rooms like a ghost, performing the necessary tasks of motherhood while feeling disconnected from herself. The nursery they had prepared now seemed a painful reminder of their shattered expectations.

Night after night, Charu sat beside Arjun's crib, watching the rise and fall of his chest. When he experienced muscle spasms, she would gently massage his limbs as the physical therapist had shown her. Her fingers, once adorned with mehendi on her wedding day, now learned new patterns—therapeutic motions to bring comfort to her suffering child.

One night, as rain tapped against the windows, she broke down. "I need my mother," she sobbed as Atish found her. "She would know what to do. She would help us."

In that moment, the distance from India felt insurmountable. Her decision to follow Atish to Australia, to build a life separate from the constant presence of extended family, now seemed a terrible mistake. Who would help them navigate this unexpected journey? Who would understand what it meant to raise a child with special needs in a country where they themselves were still learning the systems, the customs, the unwritten rules?

"We will learn," Atish said with surprising firmness. "We will become experts in caring for him."

Charu looked at her husband through tear-blurred eyes. She saw his determination, and something inside her shifted. If they couldn't change their circumstances, perhaps they could change themselves.

Over the next months, Charu transformed.

The quiet, accommodating wife became a fierce advocate. She researched cerebral palsy with the intensity of a scholar, joining online forums, reading medical journals, connecting with support groups. Their apartment filled with specialized equipment—therapy balls, massage mats, custom chairs, braces for Arjun's legs—that she learned to use with professional skill.

She discovered that Melbourne had excellent services for children with disabilities. She learned to navigate the healthcare system, mastering the Australian accent when necessary to ensure Arjun received every available therapy, every possible intervention.

One evening, as she worked with Arjun on the floor, holding a colorful toy just beyond his reach to encourage movement, she saw something remarkable. His face scrunched in concentration, he made a determined, if uncoordinated, movement toward the toy. It wasn't the response a typically developing child would make, but it was his response—evidence of his will, his effort, his presence in the world.

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, surprising her with its genuineness. When Atish entered the apartment moments later, he paused at the doorway, clearly struck by the sound he hadn't heard in months.

"Did you see that?" she looked up, her eyes bright. "He's trying so hard. He's so brave, Atish."

That night, sitting on their small balcony with the city lights spread below them like fallen stars, Charu made a decision. "We should not have more children," she said, the words emerging with clarity and conviction.

Atish looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

"Arjun will need everything we have—all our time, all our resources, all our love," she explained. "It wouldn't be fair to him or to another child."

"I've been thinking the same," Atish admitted.

"It's decided then," she said, taking his hand. "We are Arjun's parents. That will be our purpose."

The words settled around them in the night air, not as a burden but as a path forward—a choice made consciously, with full awareness of what they were embracing and what they were leaving behind.

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On Arjun's first birthday, Charu organized a small celebration. No relatives could make the journey from India, but they were no longer alone. Other parents they'd met through support groups came, bringing gifts specifically chosen for Arjun's needs. Therapists who had become like family joined them, celebrating each of Arjun's achievements as significant milestones.

Charu had prepared traditional Indian sweets alongside the cake, determined that Arjun would know his heritage even if he couldn't visit his grandparents' home. She had begun teaching herself to adapt Indian recipes for Arjun's dietary needs, refusing to accept that her son would not experience the tastes of her childhood.

When it came time to blow out the candle, she held Arjun in her lap while Atish supported their son's head. Together, they helped him lean forward. The flame flickered out to applause.

Later, after everyone had left, Charu sat in Arjun's room, watching him sleep. His limbs, often rigid during waking hours, looked peaceful now. She thought about how far they had come since that terrible day in the hospital—not just in learning to care for Arjun but in redefining their understanding of parenthood, of success, of love.

Atish joined her, his question quiet but weighted. "Do you ever regret coming to Australia?"

Charu considered this carefully. "No," she finally said. "In India, people would pity him—pity us. Here, he has a chance to be seen differently."

It was true. Here, Arjun was protected by laws ensuring his right to education, to accessibility, to inclusion. Here, she had found other mothers who understood her journey without judgment, who shared resources and strategies instead of superstitions and blame.

The path ahead would be difficult—a lifetime of therapies, of fighting for his right for equality, of worrying about his future when they were no longer there to protect him. But sitting there in the soft light of the nursery, her hand resting gently on her son's chest, Charu felt something unexpected—not resignation, but resolve. Not despair, but determination.

Her dream of raising a son who would easily navigate two cultures had disappeared.

But in its place, a new purpose had emerged—to help Arjun find his own way in a world, to advocate fiercely for him, to celebrate each hard-won milestone. To ensure that her son would be valued not for what he could achieve but for who he was.

It wasn't the life she had planned when she left India. But as the Melbourne night enfolded them, Charu recognized that it was still a life full of love—different, unexpected, but no less profound.

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Regards