I never thought that the doctor who delivered my baby would be my ex-boyfriend, Rohan. The child in my womb, it turned out, was also his flesh and blood. When Rohan’s mother found out I was pregnant, she came to me, handed me a thick stack of money, and said coldly: “Get rid of the baby.”

But I didn’t. I took the money, fled Mumbai, and went through the pregnancy alone. On the day I went into labor, Rohan was completely masked; I didn’t recognize him at all. In my agonizing pain, I screamed and cursed him and his family without mercy. Perhaps it was thanks to that, that the delivery went smoothly, and the baby was born safely.

A few days later, when I went to the counter to handle the hospital bills and get the birth certificate, the cheerful nurse said:

“Ms. Anjali, the hospital fees have already been paid. You just need to get the birth certificate for the baby.”

“Who paid?” I asked, surprised.

“I’m not allowed to say. Have you chosen a name for the baby yet? Oh, it’s better if the baby’s father fills out the birth certificate.”

I was flustered. How could I tell her I was a single mother? So I made something up:

“My husband… unfortunately passed away. I plan to give the baby my last name, Sharma.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my condolences…” The nurse looked at me with sympathy.

“It’s okay, it’s been a year already…” I forced a smile, trying to hide my embarrassment.

But just as I was writing “Sharma” on the paper, a hand unexpectedly snatched the pen away. Rohan, in his white coat, pulled up a chair and sat down in front of me. The nurse’s eyes went wide:

“Dr. Rohan?”

He pulled his mask down, looking at me with an expression that was both gentle and reproachful:

“What do you want to name the baby? The child must have his father’s last name, Verma.”

Before I could react, the bewildered nurse interjected:

“Dr. Rohan is the baby’s father? But Ms. Anjali just said her husband passed away?”

Rohan gave a wry smile, his voice half-joking:

“Yes, I should have been six feet under. But I heard her crying and cursing so loudly down there, that Yama had to send me back to suffer some more.”

I was stunned, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Rohan took the pen and continued to fill out the birth certificate: “Arjun Verma.” He looked up at me:

“This name, is it okay with you?”

I bit my lip, tears silently falling. Perhaps, after so many storms, this was the first time we were truly sitting together, writing a name—and maybe, a new beginning.