The Real Picture

“Maya…?” Rohan called out from the bedroom. “Where is my charger? Maya?!?”

“What is it? I can’t hear you…” she called out from the shower. 

“My charger? Where have you kept it?” He sounded angry, irritated, agitated. This was an everyday story. Their children had named their father ‘The Grump.’ Even then, they still loved him and accepted him for what he was. 

Maya stepped out of the bathroom, half-dressed, not allowing her husband to take up her personal space. Her wet hair was tied in a towel. Her body was soaking up the olive oil she had applied after her bath. 

“Maya… I’m asking you something,” he exclaimed. “Where is my charger?”

“I don’t know. I have not seen it. Neither do I ever fiddle with your things.” She gave him a long, blank stare. “Now I have to get ready. I need to get to work.”

“Typical,” He rolled his eyes. 

Maya had stopped noticing the silence in her home. It had settled into the walls over the years: quiet, heavy, and strangely familiar. Even the whirr of the washing machine or the clinking of lunch boxes couldn’t drown it out anymore. Silence had become the soundtrack of her marriage.

Before stepping out that Friday morning, Rohan and Maya crossed each other’s path in the kitchen like two people sharing a coworking space. 

“Did you find it?” Maya asked, making herself a cup of coffee. 

“Hmm,” he grunted. “It was in Vihaan’s room. 

Maya let out a long sigh. 

“Listen,” he began. 

“Don’t. Please. Let’s not do this today,” she continued. 

Before Rohan could complete his sentence, he saw his wife walk out of the front door with her office bag and a coffee on the go. 

It was their tenth anniversary. And neither of them had even mentioned it. 

By the time Maya reached work, she had shoved the thought right out of her head. There were meetings to survive, clients to handle, and a reel to edit during lunch. Her calendar had no space for celebration. Rohan’s day wasn’t different—back-to-back calls, a client escalation, and a headache that followed him from morning to evening.

When they finally got home, something felt … decidedly odd.

Tara, their six-year-old daughter, stood in the living room holding a card scribbled with crayons. Vihaan, nine, hovered beside her, shifting his weight nervously.

“Papa, Mama,” Tara said proudly, “today is your special day!”

Maya blinked. Rohan paused mid-step.

Rani, their househelp, lingered nearby with a soft, knowing expression. “They’ve been planning something since last week,” she whispered.

Vihaan stepped forward, voice small but determined. “Can we go out? For dinner? All four of us? Since it’s your anniversary?”

Maya’s heart squeezed. Rohan looked torn between guilt and exhaustion.

“You know what? Forget it, Tara! There’s no point. We never go anywhere!” Vihaan blurted. “I’ll just cancel that reservation. Come let's go play."

The parents said ‘yes!’ at the same time, almost in sync for the first time that day. They both knew there was no easy way to refuse. 

They ended up at a casual family restaurant near home. Bright lights, noisy tables, cheerful chaos. The kind of place where anniversaries were not really celebrated. 

They sat with the kids in between them… like buffers.

“So… how was school?” Maya asked, attempting a smile.

Tara immediately started rambling about a sports day selection. Vihaan corrected her timeline before she could exaggerate further. Rohan laughed once, politely. Maya scrolled through the menu, though she already knew her order. When their food came, the chatter thinned. The silences returned; polite, strained, familiar.

After dinner, Maya stood up. “Let’s take a picture.”

Rohan let out a breath but didn’t protest.

She clicked one of her and Rohan…his smile stiff, hers bright enough to hide how forced it felt. Then another of all four of them at the table. And one more, after they’d eaten, at the restaurant entrance…pretending joy under fairy lights.

“Was this necessary?” Rohan muttered.

“It’s for the gram,” Maya shot back, defensive without meaning to be.

He didn’t respond.

Later that night, the kids were asleep. Rohan sat on the sofa with his laptop open but untouched. Maya curled on the bed, scrolling through the photos, picking filters, crafting a caption that made their evening look tender and intentional.

She finally posted: “10 years, two kids, and a world of love. Grateful.”

She tagged him.

Rohan’s phone buzzed. He read the caption twice. Love? Grateful? He locked his phone and stared at the dark screen for a long time. 

Neither of them slept well.

By Saturday morning, the house was unusually quiet. Tara was drawing in her corner. Vihaan was building something with Lego. Rani chopped vegetables in the kitchen. Maya and Rohan sat separately, lost in their screens, scrolling through notifications.

The comments poured in. 

Wow, couple goals! 

Perfect family! 

God bless you! You two are made for each other! 

Power couple!

Rohan scoffed under his breath. “Perfect? Seriously?”

Maya reread the comments, one after another. The admiration felt like a sham. “Well, it is a lie,” she thought. "But somehow this feels so good!"

Throughout the day, they tried to avoid one another. Finally, they accidentally ran into each other. She was putting away folded clothes, and Rohan was looking for his charger. He looked at Maya, holding her gaze.  He was no longer furious but he was resentful. 

Some quiet, painful questions sat between them: Were we ever really like that couple on Instagram? We’re we? How did we end up in this place?  Burdened? Overworked? Disconnected? Resentful? Irritated? Angry?

The moment lingered long after they looked away.

By evening, Rohan closed his laptop and said, “Maya… let’s go for a walk.”

She stared at him, taken aback. The instinctive fear was that he wanted to argue about last night, or confront her about the post, or restart one of their usual loops of blame and shame. But there was something different in his face. He looked tired, exhausted really, but softer.

She agreed. Reluctantly. Her inner voice couldn’t say no. 

They walked down their lane through the soft winter evening. The air smelled faintly of dust and freshly brewed chai. They didn’t speak at first. It felt strange to be next to each other without the children filling the silence.

Halfway down, Rohan cleared his throat.

“Let’s try something,” he said.

Maya glanced at him, wary but curious.

“I saw a reel on Instagram, and I thought, why not?” he continued apprehensively. 

“Okay… I thought you weren’t really into Instagram,” she frowned. 

“Just please hear me out.”

She paused. 

“Three things I love about you,” he said, “and one thing that hurt me this week. Just one.”

She was all ears. This wasn’t the man who had shut himself off behind a screen or behind sarcasm. This was someone trying.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Rohan went first. “I love how you talk kindly to everyone... even strangers. I love how you tuck the kids in every night, no matter how late you get home. And I love… that you still chase your dreams. You don’t let them die just because life got complicated.”

Her throat tightened.

“And what hurt you?” she asked gently.

“That day when you corrected me sharply in front of the kids,” he said. “I felt really small.”

The honesty stung. Not because it was harsh. Because it was true.

She breathed slowly. “My turn?”

He nodded.

“I love how you wake the kids every morning with patience,” she said. “It’s something I just can’t do. I love how you handle every crisis without making us feel unsafe. And I love that you still try, even when you’re exhausted. You don’t quit on us.”

Rohan’s eyes softened.

“And what hurt you?” he said, softly. 

“You forgot our anniversary,” she replied. “You didn’t even look at me in the morning. You just rambled about your stupid charger.”

He closed his eyes, guilt washing over him.

They walked the rest of the way home without speaking. But they gently held hands.

The next Sunday, Rohan asked again, “Walk?”

And Maya willingly agreed.

They followed last week's protocol, but the words came more easily.

Over the next few weeks, their home changed in subtle but unmistakable ways. The dinner table became a shared space again. The kids laughed more. Screens stayed off a little longer. Arguments didn’t vanish, but they softened. Maya posted fewer polished pictures. Rohan stayed in the same room more often.

They didn’t magically transform into a perfect couple. They simply started choosing each other again; deliberately, gently, imperfectly.

Three months later, during one of their Sunday walks, Rohan halted.

“You know,” he said, “I didn’t enter your life dramatically. I just… slipped in.”

Maya smiled, remembering the easy way he had once walked into her college friend’s party and sat beside her as if he belonged.

She knew this wasn’t a happily-ever-after.

It wasn’t a picture perfect. 

But it was her a real picture. And she somehow understood she should embrace it and not let it slip away.