I could feel it in every inch of my body—the weight of these seven months. Each morning when I stood in front of the mirror, my reflection surprised me. My belly curved outward, carrying within it the most precious part of Rudra and me. My breasts, fuller now, felt heavier, sensitive to even the faintest brush of my palms when I dressed. My skin stretched at places I had never noticed before, faint lines marking themselves along my hips and belly like delicate strokes of time etched permanently on me.

I knew what they were—stretch marks. The midwife had warned me they would come. But knowing didn’t mean accepting. Some days I touched them gently, telling myself these were marks of love, of motherhood, of the little life growing inside me. Other days, when I sat alone, my hands resting on my lap, I felt the sharp sting of insecurity. Would Rudra find me less beautiful now? I told myself he never would—he was not the kind of man to see flaws in me. But the heart is rarely persuaded by reason.