2002.

April. Chennai burned under a merciless sun. The days were long and dry, the kind that drained hope from even the strongest hearts. Yet, for me, April had always held a quiet significance—my wife’s birthday on the 7th, and our wedding anniversary on the 15th. They were dates etched in warmth and memory. But that year, joy was distant.

I was struggling—physically, emotionally, in every way. My role as the head of the family felt like a weight I could no longer carry. I had no strength to celebrate, no energy to offer smiles. My wife—Mrs. Jeb—grew tense and withdrawn. Her emotions, once gentle, became jagged. I saw it in her silence, in the way she moved around the house, lost in thought. Something inside her was slipping away, and I could feel it like a chill.

Her birthday came and went. I didn’t greet her, didn’t offer a gift or hug. I didn’t even speak of the day. Just fifty-eight days earlier, she had given me the most precious gift—a newborn child. And yet, all I did was sit and watch, lost in my own collapse. I must have looked as though I had forgotten the day entirely. But I hadn’t. I simply couldn’t rise to meet it.

A week later, our wedding anniversary passed just as quietly. No music. No celebration. I had managed to keep a book aside for her—Vaigarai Vellum by Ramanichandran, her favourite author. It was a small gesture, but I didn’t even have the strength to walk up the stairs and hand it to her. The silence between us deepened.

Then one day, I overheard her speaking with Grandma. Her voice broke me.

“What will I be after he’s gone? What will I do without him?” she asked, her words dissolving into tears.

Grandma responded in a soft, steady voice. “Be calm. Things will be all right.” She reached out, wiped her tears.

Inside me, something shattered. I longed to go to her, to hold her, to say something—anything. But I stayed still. That conversation carved a deep chasm in me, and I felt myself slowly sinking into it.

I could sense she was processing something serious—something I couldn’t reach. Her face grew pale over the smallest things. Her words came out sharp and sudden. Still, I didn’t react. I only watched, knowing she needed more care than I could give.

She grew hard on me, whispering her grievances to her mother, mumbling under her breath. And I… I couldn’t sleep. My mind wandered back to our days in the U.S.—the romance, the hope, the laughter. But those memories didn’t soothe me. They only made the silence between us louder.

I was still there. But something inside both of us had gone quiet.