LOVING ACP SIR - PART 2

Realization

Again, he is used to all this.

He learned to hold everything in, to be calm, steady, and reliable—the son of Revathi Illam, the one who never wavered. But that didn’t mean he never longed for love. That feeling never disappeared.

He was the eldest. The firstborn. He had responsibilities. That’s what he has been. That’s how he lived. He buried his wishes deep, never voiced them again. He became good at everything—not because he sought recognition, but because being the eldest meant there was no room for error. It wasn’t a choice. It was expected. And he was too good at it.

He had simply learned not to ask for it—from anyone but her.

His Thulir.

When she became his, he no longer had to seek love—it surrounded him, unwavering and abundant. She filled the empty spaces within him effortlessly, without him ever needing to ask. He wasn’t someone who forced people to stay in his life, which was why, when she had once refused his love and avoided him for years, he had blamed himself. He had never chased, never begged—only waited, carrying the quiet ache of unspoken feelings.

And when she did come back, when she chose their marriage without even asking him, he hadn’t made it difficult for her. Because he knew. She was going to stay. He wouldn’t push, wouldn’t pull too hard—because if he did, she would have left again. The best way to keep her wasn’t through control or insistence, but through quiet surrender. She didn’t need to be led, didn’t need to be told what to do.

He understood that about her.

She would make mistakes, and she would feel guilt deeply, but she would always take responsibility—always try to mend things on her own, as long as she wasn’t forced into it. She wasn’t stubborn, nor was she unreasonable. She was thoughtful, patient, and needed time to process things in her own way. If she was wrong, she would seek forgiveness without hesitation. If he was wrong, she would give him space to realize it on his own, never demanding answers or pushing too hard. And in return, she expected the same.

Because just like him, she was the eldest daughter, raised with responsibility pressed into her shoulders from a young age. But unlike him, she had embraced the power that came with it—she had wielded it, used it with confidence. She had never needed to long for love because it had always been there, given freely, without conditions.

She was his priceless gift.

And now, as he looked at her, he found himself reflecting—not on her, but on himself. On what it meant to have her. On what it meant to be truly loved.

She had endured a complicated pregnancy without a single complaint, silently carrying the weight of it while adjusting to everything that followed. She had left her lecturer job without protest, never once bringing it up in conversation, never making it a lingering regret. She had transformed completely—becoming the ideal daughter-in-law, the devoted wife, the dedicated mother. And despite his ignorance, she had forgiven him in a heartbeat, never holding it against him.

She had moved wherever his job required, even though she had never been fond of constant travel. She loved Revathi Illam, had always wanted to stay close to the family, yet she had followed him, packing up and relocating every time without complaint. Perhaps the only moment she had truly voiced her feelings was when he asked her about having another baby—her response had been forced out of her, brought to the surface only because he had pushed the topic. If he hadn’t, maybe she wouldn’t have said so much.

Now, as he watched her, he saw how effortlessly she juggled everything, carrying the responsibilities of both a daughter-in-law and a daughter. And despite the never-ending tasks that filled her days, she remained a perfect mother. She had taken the time to speak with Malar and Alar’s teachers, arranging their leave, ensuring their studies wouldn’t suffer. He knew she would make sure they read their notes, did their homework, completed their assignments—because that was just who she was.

She was a writer. And yet, he had never known until someone else told him. That thought lingered in his mind. What did she mean by "I'll think about it"? Was she considering restarting her career as a professor? Maybe. But she hadn’t told him anything about it yet. Was she hesitating? Holding herself back because of his profession?

Because if she accepted the offer, she would be in Chennai, and he would be in Salem. Their daughters would be caught in between—where would they stay? How would their studies continue? Was she sacrificing her career again, choosing her family over herself?

That thought didn’t sit well with him. Not at all.

If she wanted to return to teaching, he would support her decision without hesitation. Their daughters could stay here—there were plenty of excellent schools to choose from, and beyond that, they even had their own school. The girls would be happier here, surrounded by their cousins. Even though they had friends in Salem, their bond with family ran deeper. Just like him, just like their mother, their closest relationships weren’t just friendships—they were built within the family itself. His best friend had always been Aadhavan, his brother.

But if Thulir and their daughters stayed here, what about him? Could he live without them? No. That wasn’t possible. But he couldn’t apply for a transfer yet—he had to wait at least two years. For now, he would have to manage alone, making time to visit them whenever he could. That would have to be enough.

Yet, as he thought about it, something in him stirred uneasily.

He didn’t want to miss being with his daughters. Didn’t want to miss their childhood, their small moments of growth. He didn’t want to be a guest in their lives, appearing only occasionally, watching them grow from a distance. That was exactly what had happened to him as a child, and he refused to let history repeat itself.

Then, the realization hit him.

His parents had been in the same position. Their profession had demanded more of their time, just as his did now. If Thulir had insisted on continuing her career, he wouldn’t have had the same time with his daughters that he did now. He might have been forced to leave them here while moving from one job posting to another alone.

Thulir had wanted to be present. She had wanted to stay with their daughters, especially after missing the first two years of their lives due to her health issues. He knew that. But he couldn’t ignore the what ifs—the alternate possibilities, the choices that could have changed everything.

And now, as she stood on the edge of a decision that could reshape their lives, he wondered—would she sacrifice her career again for them? And if she did, was she truly okay with it?

That thought unsettled him more than anything else.

As Agathiyan sat lost in thought, he felt a presence beside him. Tilting his head, he found Aadhithya standing there, silent and still. Agathiyan frowned, his expression tightening with confusion.

Sighing, he spoke in a stern voice. "Aadhi, what are you doing here? It’s late. Go and sleep."

But Aadhithya didn’t reply. Instead, he quietly lowered himself onto the steps, his posture relaxed yet thoughtful.

Agathiyan’s brows furrowed. His younger brother’s behavior was unusual, puzzling. Clearing his throat, he raised an eyebrow.

"Dei, ena achu?" (What happened?)

Aadhithya exhaled, his gaze fixed ahead.

"Unga pesanum, naa." (I need to talk to you, Anna.)

Agathiyan’s curiosity deepened. "About?"

Aadhithya sighed before answering.

"You."

"Huh?" Agathiyan blinked, the unexpected reply catching him off guard.

His brother hesitated for only a moment before admitting,

"I want to ask you something… I need your advice."

Agathiyan furrowed his brows, considering the weight behind Aadhi’s words. But without hesitation, he shifted, settling beside his younger brother, ready to listen.