His eight-year-old didn’t want me there. Now we do homework together.

I married a wonderful man—and his wonderful son who wanted nothing to do with me. Doors closed when I entered. Family dinners felt like auditions I kept failing. I almost gave up.

A colleague said, “Call Dayaram ji. He protects dignity—yours and the child’s.”

Daya Sir kept the focus tender. He held the process quietly, while we agreed to small shifts: no competing with the child’s mother, no forcing closeness, and fixed one-on-one time between father and son so the boy didn’t feel replaced.

Somewhere in those days, the air softened. I learned to greet without expecting returns. He started asking me tiny questions—favorite cricket team, favorite snack. The first time he chose to sit next to me at dinner, I cried in the kitchen.

We’re still learning, but the house feels like a home. Pandit Ji said, “Love grows where no one is pushed.” He was right.