“They Mocked Me for Breastfeeding Another Woman’s Child… But 16 Years Later, That Girl Called Me ‘Mum’ in Front of Her Real Mother — Right in the Middle of a Crowded Market”

By Asha Menon | Pune Today

PART ONE — THE MILK THAT HAD NO TAKER

My name is Asha.

In 2007, I gave birth to a baby boy. Just five days later, he passed away from newborn jaundice.

He didn’t even live long enough to be named.

I was in shock. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring blankly at the milk leaking from my breasts.

My body still waited for a baby to feed.

And so, I prayed silently:

“If there is a hungry baby out there… please, bring them to me.”

PART TWO — THE GIRL FROM NEXT DOOR

Two weeks later, our neighbor’s young maid — a girl named Meena — ran into my home in tears:

“Madam told me to beg you. The baby won’t take formula. She won’t stop crying. Please help…”

That’s how I first saw baby Saanvi.

She was red-faced and trembling with hunger.

I held her close. And when her tiny lips latched onto my breast and she drank that first drop of milk… I wept too.

From that day on, I fed her daily. I rocked her. I hummed lullabies.

But her mother — Mrs. Rupa Sharma — never once said thank you.

PART THREE — THE MOCKERY AND THE SILENCE

People in the neighborhood started whispering:

“Why is she breastfeeding someone else’s child like that? What is she trying to prove?”

I didn’t respond.

I just held Saanvi closer, as if she were the last remnant of the child I had lost.

Until one day, I overheard Rupa speaking to a friend:

“That woman’s crazy. She’s using my child to heal her trauma. It’s pathetic.”

The next day, she vanished.

No goodbye.

No token of thanks.

Just silence.

PART FOUR — THE YEARS OF WAITING

I moved to a small town in Ahmednagar and started a street food stall.

I never remarried. My heart couldn’t make space for more loss.

But inside, something remained hollow.

I would often buy tiny hair ribbons, little shoes, and keep them at my stall.

Not for sale.

Just in case… she ever came back.

PART FIVE — THE ENCOUNTER AT SHIVAJI MARKET

Sixteen years passed.

One rainy afternoon, as I was closing my stall at Shivaji Market, a young girl approached me.

She had long black hair braided neatly.

She stared at me for a while.

Then asked:

“Are you Asha Ma’am?”

I nodded, confused.

She smiled through tears.

“I’m Saanvi. I’ve been searching for you all these years.”

I froze.

Before me stood the baby I once held to my chest — now a glowing teenager.

PART SIX — THE WORD I WAITED YEARS TO HEAR

Saanvi threw her arms around me.

She cried.

I cried.

Standing behind her was Mrs. Rupa — shocked, wordless.

Saanvi turned to her and said:

“You gave birth to me… but this woman? She’s the one who loved me first.”

Mrs. Rupa snapped:

“Don’t speak such nonsense!”

But Saanvi held my hand and whispered:

“I remember the smell of your sari. I remember the songs. I remember the warmth.”

PART SEVEN — THE END THAT WAS REALLY A BEGINNING

That day, Saanvi didn’t leave.

She helped me pack up my stall, ate the pakoras I made, and softly said:

“I got accepted into Pune University. But I’ll visit you every week.”

And she did.

Every Saturday morning, she brought me flowers. She brought laughter. She brought light.

And every time she said, “Maa,” it felt like the pieces of me slowly stitched back together.

Life has griefs no one sees. But motherhood — whether born from blood or from compassion — is the kind of love that never dies. It waits, it endures, and when it is finally returned… it heals