That was the name of the first house we stayed in after our marriage — in beautiful Mangalore.
Mangalore was magical. Lush greenery everywhere. From our balcony, I could see endless coconut trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The view felt alive — peaceful, fresh, comforting.
It was a simple two-bedroom, semi-furnished flat. It had almost everything we needed. More than the furniture or the space, it held our first memories as a married couple — learning each other’s habits, sharing laughter, building routines.
I loved staying there.
My mom visited us there once. I can still remember her presence in that house — her voice, her warmth, her quiet approval as she saw me settle into this new phase of life.
But after she passed away in May 2015, something changed.
The same house that once felt full began to feel empty.
I started having nightmares. I missed her so deeply that every corner reminded me of her visit. Her absence echoed louder than the silence.
And I realised something painful — sometimes it’s not the place that changes.
It’s the heart that cannot bear the memories.
Mars and Venus will always remain special to me.
It was our first home.
And it was the last place my mother saw me as a newly married woman.
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