The marriage lasted four years.

The gossip? Much longer.

At first, everyone called to ask what happened. People who hadn't called in years suddenly had questions. Concerned questions, obviously. The Indian variety. “But what did you do?” “Couldn't you have adjusted a little?” “Shaadi mein toh hota hai.”

Then the calls stopped.

At family functions, she became a slightly awkward subject nobody wanted to discuss. Her cousins were getting engaged. Someone had a baby. Someone else had bought a flat with their husband. Every conversation seemed to arrive at the same place.

Her.

“You'll find someone again,” her aunt said one afternoon, as if she'd misplaced her handbag.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to marry again.

That was the funny part. Nobody had asked.

She had a job. Friends. A life she was slowly beginning to enjoy. Some Sundays were lonely, yes. Some nights she wanted someone to tell the most boring details of her day to. Not her mother. Not a friend who'd immediately turn it into a therapy session.

Just someone who got it.

But in her family's imagination, a divorced woman could have only two endings. A second husband or a sad life.

There was no third option. A woman who was okay on her own, but still open to love. A woman who didn't need rescuing, just wanted to meet someone decent.

She started looking.

Not for a replacement husband. Not to prove anything to the relatives.

Just a conversation that didn't begin with her marital history.

Maybe that's where starting over really begins. Not with a new relationship. With the decision that your old one doesn't get to define every room you walk into.

The uncomfortable question: Why does society say it supports divorced people, then treat their next relationship like a public referendum?