Between Birth and Belonging

By Aisha Dhar

"She lived between two homes —One gave her a name,The other gave her a heartbeat."

Not every child grows in the house they’re born into.Sometimes, life — in its strange kindness — plants you where love will actually grow.

This is the story of a girl who learned to smile in a home that wasn’t hers by name,And cry in silence in the house that was.

She wasn’t searching for sympathy.She was just trying to survive love — in all its flawed forms.

Some called her lucky.Some called her broken.

But no one knew the full story…

Until now…

She was just twenty days old when the first big decision of her life was made — a decision she never had a say in. She was sent to live with her maternal aunt, so her working parents could ensure she’d be raised with care and attention. It sounded practical, even wise. But for her, it shaped everything.

A tiny soul, unaware of this world, was placed in the arms of a new family. They weren’t strangers — they were her mother’s sister and brother-in-law — but in the language of love, they became more than just relatives. They became her world.

She grew up calling her aunt “Maa” and her uncle “Dad.” Her three elder cousins were her sisters in every sense — guiding, protecting, and pampering her. The home she lived in was filled with warmth, rituals, morning rushes, evening laughter, and bedtime stories. She wasn’t just raised — she was celebrated.

Mornings meant everyone running around to get her ready for school: one braided her hair, another packed her tiffin, someone waited by the gate for her school bus. Evenings were about her Maa feeding her with her hands, asking how her day went, and stories whispered into her ears before she napped.

To her, this was normal. This was family.

Her biological parents?

She called her biological mother “Maasi.” She and her elder brother visited often. She liked them — especially her elder brother — but she felt no deep bond with them. And her biological father?He remained a distant, unfamiliar figure. He hardly made time for her and rarely interacted, but as time would prove, he would want to control her love and limit her freedom.

Years passed in the warmth of her foster home. But when she reached class 7, everything changed.

Her biological parents decided it was time to take her back. They shifted her to their house, enrolled her in a new school, and turned her world upside down.

No one asked her.No one considered the storm it would stir inside her.She didn’t scream or resist. She obeyed — as she always had.

But the pain of being pulled away from the only home she had known — the only family she ever truly belonged to — shattered her silently.

The new home felt cold. Her father, a man who wanted to rule but not raise, made life heavier each day. He had always disliked her growing attachment to her foster family. He resented her visits, questioned her loyalty, and made her feel guilty for missing them.

She lived in fear — fear of asking him anything, fear of expressing what she felt, fear of being punished for love.

Even talking to her Maa and Dad — the ones who raised her — became something she had to do in secret.Whenever she or her mother picked up the phone, his eyes would narrow.“Always on the phone,” he would mutter.If anyone from her mother's side ever asked to speak with him, his tone turned cold — restricted, calculated.Over time, it created an invisible wall.She learned to end calls the moment he entered the room.Sometimes, she’d pretend the phone never rang at all.Not because she didn’t want to speak,but because she didn’t want to hear another comment,another sigh, another reminder that even love needed his permission.

She thought it was easier to hang up… than to be humiliated.And so, little by little, love became a thing to hide.

A simple phone call…became a quiet act of rebellion.

But it wasn’t just calls.Even joy had to be timed.Even plans had to tiptoe.

She became a quiet person.Hesitant. Always stepping back instead of forward.She avoided conflict — not because she didn’t have a voice,but because her voice was never allowed to exist freely.

She never questioned anything,even when something quietly tore her inside.She feared confrontations.She kept conversations to the minimum.

To her, discussions were never about understanding.They were just a softer word for fights.And fights… always led to pain.

So she chose silence — again and again —not out of weakness,but because silence had once kept her safe.

She notices the small things others miss —The sudden change in tone,The way someone’s eyes harden,How silence fills a room after a heavy word.Because she’s lived it before.

When a man raises his voice — even slightly —Her hands go cold.Not because of what he says…But because of what she’s afraid might come next.

When someone mocks her feelings “just as a joke,”She doesn’t laugh.Because she knows that’s how it always began —Truth hidden behind a smile.

When a man questions who she talks to,Or why she needs space,Her heart races —Not with guilt,But with the fear of being controlled again.

Even if his love is real,Even if his care is pure —Any reminder of her past becomes a warning bell.

So she pulls back.Not because she doesn’t want love —But because she’s terrified it might cost her freedom.

She wants a love that feels like shelter,Not a cage.

And until she finds that —She walks alone…With grace, with strength, and a quiet firethat says:“I’ve already survived the worst kind of love —I won’t survive it again.”

She had waited with her bags packed by 9 a.m.,combed hair, excitement shining in her eyes —“Will you drop me to Maasi’s?” she’d whisper low,Knowing well he’d never show."I’ll come by noon," he had said.But the clock ticked past sunset, and no footsteps came.She didn’t cry.She just unpacked silently,like a child who had stopped expecting birthdays.

She began to suffer from anxiety, constantly walking on eggshells. Her mother — already broken by her own struggles — never noticed. Or maybe she did, but had no strength left to fight. A woman who spent her life serving her husband’s moods and insults, never once asked if she was okay. Her eyes were tired. Her voice, quiet.Seeing her mother live that way, something broke inside the girl. She began to lose faith in love. In marriage. In the idea of home. She didn’t want to become another shadow in someone else’s story.

Love, she thought, should never cost your voice.But her mother had been paying for years.So the girl decided — she would love, but from a distance.And she would never beg to be loved back.

She became someone who tolerated everything. She started believing that pleasing others would keep peace. She stopped living for herself. She lived for everyone but her needs, her dreams — they became whispers she ignored. If she could keep everyone else happy, maybe — just maybe — she’d feel safe.

One day, unable to bear it anymore, the girl took a bus alone and traveled back to her foster home. The route was confusing, but her heart knew the way.

She stood at the gate.Her Maa opened the door.And the tears did what words never could.

From then on, she made weekend visits — mostly alone, because her father never kept his promises to drop her. He would say, “I’ll come soon,” but the sun would set and the day would end, and he never arrived.

Eventually, tensions exploded. Her father fought with her foster parents and stormed off in rage. But in that chaos, a silent miracle happened — her Maa and Dad took her and her mother back to their place. Once again, she was in her real home.But this time, the happiness was bittersweet. Because now, she knew why she had been sent away at birth — her mother had wanted her to grow in love, far away from bitterness.

Her bond with her biological parents changed with time. She became calm, kind — but distant. She lost her foster parents eventually. The people who gave her life, raised her, shaped her… were now only in her prayers.But their teachings live on in her heart. Their love, unshakeable and true, still holds her up.

There were days when her grief spilled through her eyes —when Maa and Dad, the ones who raised her, left this world.Her heart ached to mourn,but even tears weren’t allowed in that house.

He would glare at her —those sharp eyes were warnings, not worries.“Don’t cry,” he said.But not out of love.Not out of comfort.Out of command —because he couldn’t bear the fact that she loved someone else so deeply.

When she wept for her true parents,he didn’t console her.He silenced her.Because in his world,love was only valid if it belonged to him.

And when she dared to defend them,to speak of their goodness —he’d say he was “just joking.”But she had learned by then —truth often wears the mask of a joke.And even silence can sound like heartbreak.

Over the years, she became quieter — not because she had nothing to say, but because life had taught her that speaking often led to storms.She feared confrontation like a child fears thunder — loud, sudden, and always followed by hurt.So she learned to avoid it.She avoided arguments, never raised her voice, never asked “why.” Even when something broke her from within, she smiled, nodded, and moved on.

Conversations felt dangerous. Disagreements, even more.She believed that peace only came when things were left unsaid.And so, her silence became her shelter.

But that silence came at a cost.It buried her voice.It stole her laughter.It made her appear strong, when all she really wanted…was someone safe enough to say,“It’s okay, speak — I’m not here to hurt you.”But no one ever said it.So she kept it all in.

As she grew older, the chaos inside her didn't completely vanish — but she began to see it differently. In the stillness of lonely nights and the silence between her battles, she stumbled upon words — not from books, but from a soul that spoke gently to hers. These words didn’t preach — they healed. She learned to forgive, even when she couldn’t forget.

She listened to someone who didn’t just speak of pain, but of rising above it. Someone who reminded her that suffering ends the moment we stop expecting love from the wrong places… and start nurturing it within.

She learned that every soul chooses its journey — even its pain — not as punishment, but as purpose. That the people who hurt her weren’t enemies, just lost in their own pain. And she? She was sent into their world with the strength to absorb it, transform it, and end the cycle.

Slowly, her anger turned into understanding. Her wounds into wisdom. She stopped begging for love, and instead became love.

It was in those moments of spiritual awakening — alone, yet guided — that she realized:

She wasn’t broken.She was chosen.To feel deeply.To forgive silently.To grow endlessly.

She no longer cries.But every now and then, her silence says everything.

She grew up learning silence as safety.Obedience as peace.And shrinking herself as love.

So now, even as an adult,She hesitates before speaking.She overthinks before trusting.She walks on emotional tiptoes — even when there are no stones.

Confrontation terrifies her —Not because she’s weak,But because all her life,Conflict meant chaos,And chaos meant pain.

She struggles with affection —Not in giving, but in receiving.When someone shows her love, she questions it.When someone offers warmth, she checks for the catch.

She keeps her circle small, her feelings smaller.Sometimes, she pushes people away —Not because she wants to,But because she doesn’t know if she’ll survive losing them.

She still smiles — beautifully.But sometimes, her smile is armor.Not joy.

She is learning now — slowly —That love isn’t control.That peace isn’t silence.That she doesn’t have to apologize for being soft.Or for finally choosing herself.

Healing isn’t quick.But it’s coming —With every truth she lets herself speak aloud.

Born to Devaki, but raised by Yashoda,She lived between two worlds — one of duty, one of devotion.

She never chose her path,But she walked it with grace.

And if you ever meet her…Look into her eyes — you’ll find a whole childhood...whispering quietly behind them.

“She fought battles in silence, for the people she loved in noise.”This was her story — of heartbreak, of healing, and of learning that family isn’t always who gives you life……but who teaches you how to live it.

She still lives quietly.Still avoids loud arguments, still nods instead of speaking,still walks on eggshells just to keep peace in rooms where love should’ve spoken first.She doesn’t cry in front of anyone anymore.But her pillow has stories the world will never hear.

She has learned that some people survive not because they are fearless —but because they keep breathing despite fear.

She doesn’t fight back.Not because she agrees,But because she knows battles don’t always need noise.Some battles are won in endurance.In dignity.In walking away… without a scar showing.

She has become a soft soul with quiet boundaries.And if she still bends,it’s not because she’s weak —It’s because she remembers a time when love was soft, and real,and she wants to keep that memory alive within her.

She doesn’t try to fix what broke her anymore.She just builds a new life around the cracks.And maybe that’s what healing is.Not forgetting.Not forgiving.Just choosing to carry your story… with grace.

So if you ever see a quiet girl, smiling gently in a noisy room —look again.She might be someone who once lived two lives:One where she was born…And one where she was truly loved.

This is not just the story of a girl.It is the story of every childwho learns to build peacewith pieces no one else bothered to gather.

By Aisha Dhar