'The Way We Were Meant To Meet': A Single Mother's Second Chance At Love

I never thought owning a house would feel like this—not just walls and a roof, but a quiet victory over every sleepless night I’d spent calculating budgets on my phone while Riya slept beside me. At forty-two, I’d finally done it: a small three-BHK in Gurgaon, with a tiny balcony in front of every room. The moment the keys were in my hand, reality hit. The place needed serious work. Peeling plaster, a kitchen the builder had thrown together ten years ago, toilets that were all broken. I had Riya’s future to think of, Papa’s diabetes appointments, Ma’s physiotherapy after her hip surgery. Renovation felt like one more impossible thing on a list that never got shorter.

I interviewed interior designers the way I interview vendors at work - politely, efficiently, skeptically. Big firms quoted numbers that made my stomach turn. Solo consultants promised miracles but delivered vague mood boards. Then I saw 'Revive Interiors' on Instagram - a small startup with a young team and a sustainable focus. Something about their page looked relatable, so I booked a consultation.

Three bedrooms and a room for love

Vikram Mehra walked in on a sticky July afternoon carrying only a tablet and a quiet confidence. No flashy portfolio, no overpowering cologne. Just warm brown eyes and a smile that reached them. We walked through the house together. I pointed out the cracked tiles, the narrow corridor, the bedroom I wanted to turn into a bright space for Riya’s art and homework. He listened without interrupting. When I said, “I need practical over pretty,” he nodded like he understood exactly what that meant to a single mother who’d been practical her whole life.

I gave him the project. Not because he was the cheapest, though he was fair, but because he understood that this house had to hold three generations without anyone feeling squeezed.

Work started slowly, then picked up speed. Mornings, I’d leave for the office while his team hammered away. Evenings, I’d come back to dust and progress. Vikram was often there late, measuring, sketching, making sure nothing went wrong.

One chilly evening in November, the site was empty except for him. I’d had a brutal day. Papa’s sugar had spiked, Ma was tearful about pain, Riya upset because her best friend had moved away. I walked in soaked and exhausted, and found Vikram on the half-finished balcony, the wind chill hitting our faces. He offered me coffee from his flask. We sat on plastic chairs, sipping coffee.

I don’t know why I started talking. Maybe because he didn’t ask questions, he just listened. I told him about the accident that took Rohan, about the years I stopped feeling anything except duty, about how sometimes I looked at Riya and wondered if I was enough. He told me about his own divorce, how he’d walked away from a big architecture firm because he wanted to build things that mattered, not just towers that touched the sky.

Our hands brushed when he passed me the cup. Neither of us moved away.

After that heart-to-heart conversation, everything felt different. Sometimes you just want to tell every bit of your story because you know the other person is equally interested in sharing theirs. A late-night message about tile samples turned into voice notes about our days. He brought laddoos his mother had made; I left him a plate of bathua parathas that I’d made for everyone at breakfast. When a supplier delayed the kitchen counter, he drove across the city at midnight to source an alternative so we wouldn’t lose time. When Papa needed an urgent doctor visit, and my meeting ran late, Vikram offered to take him - no hesitation. I watched from the car window as he helped Papa into the backseat with such gentle care, and something inside me cracked open.

I fought it, of course. I was too old for butterflies, too burdened for romance. But love, I learned, doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.

The housewarming puja was simple. Just family, a few friends, diyas flickering in every room. The home smelled of fresh paint and incense. The kitchen island gleamed under warm lights; Riya’s room had a window seat for reading; Ma and Papa’s suite had wide doors and soft white walls that felt like sunlight even on cloudy days. As everyone admired, Vikram found me on the balcony.

“This house is you,” he said, voice low. “Strong. Warm. Full of stories. And I’ve fallen in love with every single one of them. With you.”

I looked at the man who had quietly become part of our chaos and made it feel lighter. Tears came before words. “I’m scared,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “But I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

I didn’t tell him to.

We’re taking it slow. Weekend picnics, dinners where Riya tells him about school, evenings when he drops me home while we talk about nothing and everything. My parents’ health still worries me, work still demands too much, but now there’s someone who carries part of the load without being asked.

The house is finished, but something else has just begun. Every morning when I open the balcony doors and feel the breeze, I remember that sometimes renewal isn’t only about walls and floors. Sometimes it’s about letting someone in—carefully, fully—and discovering you were never meant to hold everything alone.

Fictional story by Radhika Dhingra, freelance writer. Views expressed by the author are their own.