Two days had passed since that evening when my mother’s words had cut sharper than any blade. Her eyes had blazed with that quiet fury only a mother’s heart can hold—half disappointment, half desperation. She had accused me again of burying myself in solitude, of holding on to a past that could no longer return. And though I had spoken little then, silence had always been my shield, the last two days I had tried, in small ways, to soothe her wounded spirit.

This morning, her mood was lighter. A faint smile had touched her lips as she had poured water into the tulsi plant in the courtyard, whispering prayers under her breath. The lines of weariness on her forehead seemed softened, and when she sat down across from me during the meal, there was no reproach in her eyes—only a mother’s longing that I feared I would never fully fulfill.