The rain had been falling since morning, tapping gently against the windowpanes of Saraswati's small home like an old song—one that whispered of memories, regrets, and things left unsaid.
She stood in the kitchen, her fingers trembling slightly as she poured tea into two cups. The aroma of jasmine floated in the air, calming yet bittersweet. Her heart pounded with a mix of nervousness and sorrow.
There was a knock at the door.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel, took a deep breath, and walked toward it. When she opened the door, her heart nearly stopped.
Standing there, under a black umbrella, was a woman whose face she knew too well—sharp features, proud posture, and a gaze that once pierced like knives.
It was Ibu Ratri, Raga's mother.
"May I come in?" she asked, her voice softer than Saraswati had ever remembered.
Saraswati stepped aside without a word, her throat suddenly dry. She watched as the older woman removed her shoes and carefully folded her umbrella. The atmosphere between them was fragile—like glass on the edge of a table.
They sat across from each other at the dining table, the steam from the teacups rising between them like a veil.
"I didn't expect you," Saraswati finally said.
"I didn't expect myself either," Ibu Ratri replied with a weak smile. Her eyes looked tired. Older. Not just from age, but from carrying something heavy for too long.
There was silence again—thick, tense, but not hostile. Saraswati waited.
"I've been... watching you, from afar," Ibu Ratri began, her hands nervously cradling the warm cup. "You've done well, raising Amara."
Saraswati's heart ached at the mention of her daughter. "She misses her grandparents," she said softly.
"I miss her too," the older woman admitted, her voice cracking. "I miss... a lot of things."
Another long pause. The rain continued to fall outside, filling the silence with its steady rhythm.
"I know I was cruel to you," Ibu Ratri said, eyes now fixed on her lap. "I said things no mother should ever say to someone who just lost her husband. I blamed you for Raga's death. As if you were responsible for fate."
Saraswati swallowed hard. Memories of that day resurfaced. The funeral. The piercing gaze. The cold words. "You were never enough for him."
"I was angry," Ibu Ratri continued, her voice trembling. "Not just at the world. At God. At myself. I needed someone to carry the weight of my grief—and I put it all on you."
Saraswati blinked away tears that threatened to fall. She had waited years for these words, yet now that they were here, they didn't bring satisfaction. They brought sorrow.
"I never hated you, Saraswati," the older woman said, finally looking into her eyes. "But I was afraid. Afraid that you would move on. Afraid that you would forget Raga. And when I heard about this man... Boase, I—" She paused, shaking her head. "I was terrified that my son's memory would vanish from your heart."
Saraswati's voice was barely a whisper. "Raga will never vanish."
"I know that now," Ibu Ratri said. "I've seen the way you keep his memory alive in Amara. In the way you talk about him. In the way you still wear his ring on a chain around your neck."
Saraswati touched the chain reflexively, her fingers brushing the ring that hung close to her heart.
"I came today not to beg for forgiveness," Ibu Ratri continued, tears now falling freely down her wrinkled cheeks. "But to ask you for a chance. A chance to be a grandmother again. A mother-in-law without bitterness. A presence that no longer wounds you."
The words shattered something inside Saraswati. The grief, the loneliness, the walls she'd built to survive—it all began to crumble.
"I was alone too, Bu," Saraswati said, her voice thick with emotion. "I was drowning in guilt. In anger. In fear. And I hated that I hated you. Because I needed you. I needed family. For me. For Amara."
They both wept then—not out of rage or regret, but out of longing. For healing. For the years lost in silence and pride.
"I heard about Boase," Ibu Ratri said after a while. "I don't know him. But I see how you've changed since he came into your life. There's light in your eyes again."
Saraswati nodded. "He's patient. Gentle. He never asked me to forget Raga. He only asked me to live."
There was a pause, and then Ibu Ratri spoke the words Saraswati never imagined hearing.
"Then I will support whatever choice you make. Even if it breaks my heart a little. Because I finally understand—your happiness is not a betrayal. It's a form of survival."
Saraswati reached out and took her hand. They held each other's trembling fingers, the years of pain slowly softening between their touch.
"Come visit Amara," Saraswati whispered. "She still calls you in her sleep sometimes."
"I would love that," Ibu Ratri smiled through tears. "And maybe... maybe we can both start over. Not to erase the past, but to make peace with it."
The rain had stopped outside. And though the sky remained grey, there was something new in the air—a quiet promise of healing.