A few minutes later, after every failed attempt, I let out a frustrated breath. Standing here any longer won’t change anything. It won’t ease the pain or make me feel any stronger. It’s better to go downstairs, face the day head-on, and most importantly, be there for Mom. She needs me.
With a deep breath, I adjust my white salwar kurta and dupatta, ensuring everything is in place before stepping out of my room. As I do, the familiar aroma of Mom’s cooking wafts through the air, and my stomach grumbles despite the grief in my chest. I hear the soft shuffle of movement from the kitchen and shake my head, already knowing she is in there.
My eyes drift to the clock on the living room wall. It’s only seven in the morning. I’d told her to wait for me so we could cook breakfast together at eight, but I suppose this is her way of coping—staying busy to keep the emotions at bay.
My feet hesitate, unwilling to move, as my eyes wander around the living room. Dad’s favourite recliner still sits by the brown leather couch in the centre, untouched, as if waiting for him to return. The white walls are lined with photographs capturing our lives, from my childhood to the years I grew up. My gaze settles on the fifty-inch television I’d saved up for and gifted them on their anniversary—a bittersweet reminder of the unforgettable movie nights we once shared.
My throat tightens, emotions threatening to spill over. I swallow hard, shoving the memories back into the storage chest of my heart. I have to smile for Mom. She’s already struggling through so much. Seeing me in tears would only add to her pain.
Willing myself forward, I step into the kitchen and see Mom moving around, her blue apron tied snugly around her waist, her back turned to me. I pause, taking it all in. All four burners are occupied, pots simmering away, filling the air with familiar aromas. The small four-seater dining table is already laden with food—enough to feed the entire neighbourhood. I don’t even have to lift the lid to check what dishes she must have cooked. I already know it would be all of Dad’s favourites. Right at the centre of the table sits a vase filled with fresh red roses—the same kind Dad always used to bring home for her without fail. The sight tugs at my heart, but I find my voice and finally speak.
“I told you I’d help, but you never listen to me.” I step further into the kitchen, stopping beside her. My voice is soft, but a hint of frustration, laced with concern, seeps through. She keeps working, not even glancing my way.
“Mom,” I whisper, placing my hands gently on her shoulders. She still doesn’t turn to face me, her movements slow but steady. I know why she won’t look at me. She’s holding everything in, trying to stay strong for me and shield me from her own pain.
“I was up early,” Mom finally murmurs, stirring the gravy. She’s doing her best to distract herself and avoid a deeper conversation. But I hear the sadness in her voice, the weight of everything she’s trying to carry alone.
“I wanted to help,” I say, though what I really want to do is let it all out. The pain. The ache. To scream how much I miss Dad, how the emptiness feels unbearable. But I swallow the words, knowing that saying them aloud might break us both.
This time, she turns to face me, and I catch sight of her red, puffy eyes. I choose not to mention it, instead offer her a small smile. She returns it with a weary smile of her own and says, “How about you grab the tiffin from the cupboard and start packing the food for the temple? The Panditji asked us to be there by ten for the rituals. I have everything ready… just need to pack the food.” Her voice trembles slightly.
I nod, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ve got it, Mom,” I say softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead before heading to the brown cabinets across the room. I pull out the tiffin boxes and move to the dining table. I lift the lids from the dishes, and as expected, all of Dad’s favourites are there. My chest tightens, and I quietly begin filling the tiffin. A while later, Mom joins me, bringing the rest of the food. We work side by side in silence—she focuses on preparing the pooja thali, while I pack the food.
“I was thinking of going to the orphanage to donate some of your dad’s things,” she says, breaking the silence as she takes a seat at the dining table.
I pull the chair next to her and take her hands in mine. “That’s a beautiful way to honour Dad’s memory, Mom,” I say quietly, squeezing her hands.
Mom’s teary eyes meet mine. “I just want to keep his memory alive in a way that reflects the kind person he was—a man with a big heart.”
I give her a comforting smile, my own eyes misting over. “I’m sure he’s looking down on you, feeling so touched by it.”
She nods and then cups my hand with one of hers. “Are you okay?” she asks, her concern evident. It’s just like Mom to worry about me, even when she’s in pain herself.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, hoping to ease her mind.
“I know you’ve been taking on so much lately, working late nights at the café and juggling everything. It’s quite a burden on you, and I can see how hard you’re pushing yourself.” She sighs. “I worry about you. You need to take care of yourself better.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Mom,” I reply, my voice steady. “Fulfilling Dad’s dream is really important to me. All the late nights and hard work feel worth it as I watch his vision slowly turning into reality. And more importantly, having you with me makes it all easier. Your support and presence mean everything to me, and they keep me going.”
“Sana…” Her voice is thick with emotion. “Your dad had other dreams for you too, you know. He wanted to see you married, settled, and living happy with your own family.” She pauses, her eyes searching mine. “I know you’re pouring your heart into making his dream come alive, but it feels like you are putting your life on hold for it. He never wanted that. He would’ve hated to see you set everything aside for this and miss out on the happiness he always wished for you.”
I take a deep breath. “I know Dad had dreams for me. But I just can’t think about marriage right now. I can’t imagine leaving you here alone and starting my life with someone else. Right now, being here for you is what matters most to me.”
I see her open her mouth, probably to argue that she can manage fine on her own, but I shake my head and add, “Besides, I still need to take the café to new heights. I have so much to do. I want to open new branches, and I can’t have that kind of distraction in my life at the moment. It’s just not the right time.”
Mom looks at me for a moment, her expression softening. “I understand, sweetheart,” she says quietly. “But I don’t want you to sacrifice your future just to take care of me. I’ll always be here for you, and I know you’ll always be there for me, even if you get married and live with your husband. All I want is for you to live the life you’ve worked so hard for and not hold yourself back from the happiness you deserve.”
I open my mouth, but she squeezes my hand gently, silencing me. “As for the café, Sana, you can balance both. It’s not about choosing one over the other; it’s about finding a way to honour your dad’s dreams while also pursuing your own happiness. That’s how you’ll truly honour his memory. And to remind you once again—he always wanted you to have a fulfilling life, which means embracing happiness in every part of it.”
I drop my head onto her lap, feeling her hands gently run through my hair. “I’m not ready for that, Mom. Maybe one day. I’m not completely opposed to the idea, but now isn’t the time. I want to be here with you. Please don’t push me into something I won’t be able to give my whole heart to.”
Mom bends down and kisses my forehead. I close my eyes tightly, feeling the tears I’ve been holding back begin to roll down my cheeks.
“I won’t force you, baby. All I’m asking is that you promise me you won’t stop living your life. Don’t lose yourself entirely in work. You need to let yourself be happy.”
I wrap my arms around her waist and hold her tight. “I promise, Mom… when I find a man who is even half as good as Dad was, I won’t think twice about giving my heart to him. But until then, I won’t settle for anyone who can’t measure up to Dad’s greatness.”
Mom lets out a small chuckle. “Your dad would’ve said the same thing, puffing out his chest like he always did when he was proud. He wanted someone for you who truly deserved your heart. And I’m sure if he were here, he’d tell you,‘That’s my girl. Don’t settle for anything less, because you’re worth every bit of what you seek.’”
