The Malik residence buzzed with a quiet joy that only a proud family could carry.

Framed photographs of Akif from his childhood to his latest university award decorated the drawing room. His medals hung proudly above the family bookshelf, and a fresh bouquet of marigolds sat in the centre of the dining table—a habit his mother had picked up since Akif began pursuing his CEO dreams.

The kitchen smelled of biryani and freshly fried cutlets.

“Akif beta is coming home in the evening!” his mother beamed, placing another tray of kebabs on the table.

His father adjusted his glasses, smiling behind his newspaper. “He’s been working day and night. Let him rest, let him eat. Then we’ll talk about the app he’s designing.”

“Uff,” his mother smiled to herself. “And soon… we’ll have our Zoya too, in this house, calling me Ammi.”

She giggled to herself, eyes soft.

His father looked up and nodded. “She’s a brave girl. Anyone who can go through what she did and still smile like that—she’s already a daughter to us.”

A voice cleared from the hallway.

“Oh, so now strangers become daughters before weddings?”

The room tensed.

From the entrance of the dining room, stood Akif’s chachi—his aunt. Dressed in a crisp saree, her chin high, eyes sharp with a glint of bitterness.

“Good morning, Bhabhi,” she added, almost mockingly. “I thought family meant the people who were always around—not the ones who ran away from theirs.”

His mother froze for a second, then forced a smile. “She’s not a stranger. She’s someone our son loves.”

“Love?” The aunt scoffed. “He’s still young. Too young to understand the kind of girls that fake softness to trap boys like Akif. All drama. All sadness. Running away, rebellion, living in Mumbai shamelessly with friends—what kind of future daughter-in-law is that?”

His father placed his newspaper down. Calm, but firm. “Mind your words. You’re speaking about someone who’s seen more pain at seventeen than many of us at seventy.”

“And what about my daughter?” she snapped. “She’s been raised with culture, values, never crossed a line! But you all—just because of Akif’s crush—you’re ready to forget everything?”

Akif's mother stood up now, voice gentle but powerful. “This isn’t a crush. It’s faith. It’s two souls choosing each other over and over despite distance, society, even their own families. And I would never want a daughter-in-law who got here by competition.”

“She’s not even from here,” his aunt whispered bitterly. “And she’ll never fit in.”

The door creaked open.

Akif stood there.

Hair slightly messy from travel, duffle bag on his shoulder, and eyes darker than usual.

“I didn’t know this house had a rulebook for love.”

Silence.

His aunt straightened.

“I only said what’s true.”

“No, you said what you believe is true.” Akif’s voice was quiet but piercing. “Zoya isn’t here to impress anyone. She’s living. She’s healing. And you’ll see… she’ll be the heart of this home someday.”

He walked past them, giving his mother a warm hug. “Ammi, I missed your biryani.”

His aunt huffed and turned away.

But his parents… they just smiled.

---

That night, the house sparkled with lights for no occasion at all. It was just Akif being home.

Over dinner, they laughed, they teased. His father asked about the project, and his mother packed a box of ladoos for Zoya.

But Akif’s eyes drifted once in a while… to the spare seat at the table.

The one she’d fill one day.

When the world stopped whispering and started listening.

---