Ajay and Priti, both passionate professionals, met in a publication office—he, a senior editor; she, a junior writer. Their bond grew from long work hours and shared values to a deep friendship, eventually blossoming into love. Despite resistance from their families due to caste and cultural differences, they married in a small civil ceremony, supported only by a few close friends & their office colleagues.
Soon after their wedding, company policy forced one spouse to resign. Without hesitation, Priti stepped down. She embraced her new life as a homemaker and, two years later, motherhood, with the birth of their son, Aarav—fondly called Chikku.
On Chikku’s sixth birthday, Ajay planned a short family trip to a nearby hill station. It was supposed to be a celebration—balloons, cake, and nature. The road was clear, the sky bright. But fate struck cruelly when a car accident claimed Ajay’s life, leaving Priti alone with a child.
The grief was unfathomable. Priti was numb. Their families still didn’t come. Not to the funeral. Not to offer a word of comfort.
Ajay’s savings covered their needs for a while. But with no income and a growing child, Priti had to make a difficult decision—return to work after six long years.
Through one of her old friends from the publishing house, she landed a job as an assistant in a corporate firm. It was nowhere near what she was qualified for, but it was something. Something to keep the lights on and her child fed.
Chikku was placed in daycare. Priti's mornings began before sunrise and ended long after dark. She struggled to balance being a mother and a professional. She missed his first school play, his parent-teacher meetings, even the small drawings he proudly brought home. And yet, she soldiered on—for him.
Chikku, though young, sensed everything. He would wait at the babysitter’s window every evening, a crayon drawing clutched in hand. He became more caring, more aware of his mother’s pain. On weekends, he’d try to make tea with his tiny hands or read out loud just to see her smile.
Each day was a painful juggle—office politics, long hours, insensitive colleagues, and missing milestones in her son’s life. Her colleagues often took advantage of her silence, dumping work on her. Her bosses made her stay late, threatening consequences if she refused. She cried often—but only when Chikku was asleep. Yet, she endured silently, driven by love and responsibility.
Despite the struggles, Priti had started to regain some footing. She was slowly proving her worth at work. Her late nights turned into trusted responsibilities. Her salary saw a slight rise. She started dreaming again—small dreams of saving for Chikku’s education, maybe moving to a better house someday.
But her heart still ached.
She still set two plates on the dining table out of habit.
She still stared at Ajay’s photograph before leaving for work.
And every night, after reading Chikku his bedtime story, she would whisper, “We miss you, Ajay. But we are okay. Chikku and I… we are okay.”
Life had been unkind, yes—but it had also shown her the strength she didn’t know she possessed.
As for Chikku, he often asked about his father. Priti would tell him stories—not just of a great journalist, but of a man who loved with all his heart, who stood by truth and family, and who would have been proud of the brave little boy he left behind.
And so, life went on. Not perfect. Not easy. But full of love. Three years passed. Chikku turned nine.
It was a usual Monday morning. Priti kissed Chikku on his forehead, left him with the babysitter, and hurried to the office. That day, she had an urgent conference with a client, and her phone was on silent.
At the babysitter’s place, Chikku finished his homework early and, eager to play, sneaked out to the nearby big playground. The babysitter got busy in the kitchen. In the park, excited and fearless, Chikku climbed the tall jungle ladder. As he reached the top, he lost his balance and fell hard, landing on his head. He lay there, motionless.
The babysitter, alerted by a neighbor, rushed to the spot and found him unconscious. Without a second thought, she carried him to the nearest hospital. Scans showed severe brain trauma. The doctors informed her that it was critical—he needed urgent surgery.
The babysitter tried calling Priti repeatedly, but her phone was on silent due to a critical client meeting. She then called the office reception, requesting that an urgent message be delivered to Priti, but due to the ongoing conference, it didn’t reach her.
Finally, the babysitter left a desperate message on Priti's mobile. When the meeting ended, Priti saw 20 missed calls and the alarming message. She dropped everything and rushed to the hospital without informing anyone at work.
At the hospital, the doctor informed her about the seriousness of Chikku’s condition. The surgery would cost Rs. 5 lakhs. Trembling with fear, Priti collected all her savings, sold her jewelry, and managed to arrange Rs. 2 lakhs. She fell at the doctor’s feet, begging for help.
Seeing her desperation, the doctor agreed to admit Chikku and give her two weeks to arrange the remaining amount. As Chikku lay unconscious, Priti waited outside the ICU—no sleep, no food, just endless prayers.
She tried everyone—old friends, office colleagues, relatives, even charitable trusts—but no one came forward. Then, Priti returned to her estranged parents and in-laws, only to be turned away again.
With no other options left, finally, she approached her employer for help—but instead of empathy, she received humiliation. Before she could speak, her boss stood up in the middle of the floor and snapped, “You disappeared in the middle of a client meeting. Do you think this is some charity? You’ve embarrassed this company.”
Her colleagues whispered. Her seniors folded their arms. Nobody asked *why* she left. Nobody cared *who* she left for. As she left humiliated, her phone rang again.
It was the babysitter, “The doctors need to speak to you again. Please come.”
Priti left, broken yet again, and returned to the hospital, empty-handed. There, the doctor surprised her with a miracle—Chikku’s condition had stabilized with medication. Surgery was no longer needed. The Rs. 2 lakhs she had deposited would be returned.
As she waited beside her recovering son, she recalled her mother’s silent blessings and felt strength return.
A few days later, when Chikku stabilized, she decided to quit work. She couldn’t go through such a crisis again. Her son needed her. But before leaving, she went to the office to return files, keys, and to resign with dignity.
She walked into the director’s cabin, greeting him, and spoke calmly, “I know I left without informing. I accept that I was wrong professionally. I apologize. But tell me, sir, if you were in my place in that situation—what would you have done?”
The boss replied curtly, “For me, work is worship. My staff must be as dedicated. If you have personal problems, you should stay at home. Just like you did.”
Priti smiled faintly, “Great reply, sir. So I’ve decided to stay at home. From now on, I am only a mother—not your employee. Thank you for the opportunity.”
Before she could turn, his PA barged in. “Madam, how dare you speak to Sir like this? You’re fired!”
Priti looked her straight in the eye, “People like you mislead the management, thrive on exploiting the vulnerable, and block growth for capable professionals. That's why organisations suffer—losing good talent and retaining mediocrity.”
Then, addressing the stunned staff around her, she added:
“Because of people like you, the organisation is misguided—many mother employees like me are forced out, struggling to balance family and work. We're not less talented, but we’re constantly torn between demands. Some women don’t marry or avoid motherhood out of fear they'll lose their career. Is this growth?”
Her words echoed through the walls long after she left.
This moment became a turning point. The boss, once rigid and indifferent, began to introspect. He reviewed past employee data and found a startling pattern—90% of women who resigned did so due to childbirth, marriage, or family issues. Talented women who had significantly contributed to the company’s growth were discarded without consideration.
Months later, the same boss visited Priti’s home with staff, carrying gifts for Chikku and an offer letter for Priti, with a promotion and remote work option. She accepted with pride—not for pity, but for the recognition she had long deserved.
In his professional memoir, the boss wrote a message to all employers:
“To all my fellow employers—never ignore the silent struggles of your women employees, especially mothers. Behind every leave request or missed deadline may lie an untold battle. We must support, not sideline, them. The evanescence of talent happens not because they’re incapable—but because we fail to understand their dual roles. Since introducing reforms, our organisation has grown beyond expectations. Let us be the reason women rise again in their careers—not the reason they fade away. Thank you.”