The morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the grand mansion, glinting off the polished marble floors. In the dining room, a long oak table was laid out with a perfect breakfast hot aloo parthas stacked high, freshly grilled sandwitcs ,bowls of fruit, and steaming cups of cocoa prepared by the cheif of mansion.
At the far end of the table, little Vanya sat in her high chair, arms crossed, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed in determination.
“No!” she declared, shaking her tiny fists. “I don’t want breakfast!”
Her older brother, Vyan, sat calmly on the opposite side, spoon in hand, meticulously eating his oatmeal as if nothing unusual was happening. His hair was neatly combed, his posture perfect—he looked like a miniature gentleman.
But Vanya wasn’t interested in being a “miniature anything.”
Before the nanny, Mrs. Rita could lift her spoon to coax Vanya again, the little girl wiggled out of her high chair and darted from the dining room, her tiny slippers barely making a sound on the marble floor.
“Vanya! Come back here!” Mrs. Rita shouted, rising quickly. She was a tall woman, in her late 40s always patient, working as a nanny for the these children since Vanya was three but mornings like this tested her endurance.
Vanya laughed mischievously as she ran past the grand staircase, through the hallway adorned with expensive paintings, and around the velvet-cushioned chairs in the sitting room. Her curls bounced with every step, her determination as unyielding as a storm.
Mrs. Rita hurried after her, calling out, “Vanya, my dear, you need to eat! Breakfast is important!”
Vanya skidded around a corner, giggling, and hid behind a large potted plant, peeking at her nanny like a tiny, victorious pirate.
Meanwhile, Vyan finished his breakfast quietly, occasionally glancing at the chaos. “She’s going to be late for school,” he said in a soft, disapproving tone, as if reciting a matter-of-fact observation rather than scolding his sister.
Just as Mrs. Rita finally cornered Vanya near the grand piano, a deep voice echoed through the hall.
“What is going on here?”
Vanya froze. Her eyes widened.
Her father, Mr. Harshwardhan , entered the room. Tall, imposing, in early 30s and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, he surveyed the scene: Mrs. Rita out of breath, Vanya hiding like a tiny rebel behind the piano, and Vyan sitting quietly at the dining table with his oatmeal.
“Vanya baccha,” he said gently his cold demeanor slipping away in front of his children, “why are you running away from your breakfast?”
“I don’t like it!” Vanya shouted, her small voice trembling with defiance.
Mr. Harshwardhan knelt down to her level, his stern expression softening as he looked into her eyes. “I see. But breakfast is important, my little whirlwind. How about we make a deal? You eat one bite, and then after school you can play in the garden ?”
Vanya hesitated, her defiance warring with curiosity. After a long pause, she finally peeked over the piano and whispered, “Just one bite?”
“One bite,” her father confirmed with a smile.
Slowly, she walked back to the dining room, her tiny hand slipping into Mr. Harshwardhan's . Mrs. Rita exhaled in relief, and Vayan gave her a small, approving nod.
The aloo parthas , which had seemed so unappealing moments ago, suddenly didn’t look so bad when shared with a warm smile from her father.
Soon after, the children were ready for school. Vanya now much calmer, held Mrs. Rita's hand, while Vayan adjusted his backpack quietly. The mansion’s long driveway echoed with the sound of their small feet and the gentle rumble of the car engine.
Mrs. Rita guided the children into the backseat of the sleek family car, while the driver started the engine. Mr. Harshwardhan seated in his luxury SUV, adjusted his tie and glanced at the rearview mirror one last time.
As the car merged into the city streets, his thoughts drifted away from the morning chaos. Vanya’s defiance, Vayans’ quiet composure—it all faded into the background as he thought of their mother. Her laughter, the way she used to brighten every corner of the mansion, the warmth of her presence. It would have been easy if she was here with them. It's been three years since they lost her in a car accident.
Her death was not easy for them to handle . Little Vanya was just two year old and Vayan was seven. Her death has been very devastating for them. Especially for his children, she left them when they needed her most. Leaving him and his children in this cruel world alone. After her death he had completely emrgeged himself in his work , just giving a little time to his children.
He clenched his hands briefly around the steering wheel, a quiet ache in his chest. Work called, meetings awaited, and the world demanded his attention—but a piece of him lingered in the memories of mornings like this, where the house was filled with little footsteps, laughter, and love.
The SUV glided through the traffic as he adjusted his focus, yet the thought of her lingered like a soft melody, accompanying him on the road to his office.
Meanwhile, behind him, Mrs. Rita kept a watchful eye on the children, making sure Vanys didn’t suddenly spring another breakfast rebellion, while Vayan gazed out of the window, quietly enjoying the morning sun.
The mansion’s grand doors closed behind them, leaving behind the echoes of tiny feet, laughter, and a father’s quiet reflection.
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