Jai stood quietly in the kitchen, assembling a modest plate of fish and rice. The aroma drifted through the air, weaving its magic into every corner of the room—so comforting, so familiar. I watched him with a gentle admiration. He approached dinner not as a chore, but as a ritual—something he found almost artisanal, more graceful than anything I might have prepared.
As the fragrance of the meal wrapped around me, memories arrived—soft, subtle, and bittersweet. I saw Mihir at that tender age, sitting at the table while his mother served him with a warmth that felt boundless. Now, there stood Jai, delicately arranging his dinner, alone. How peculiar, and how achingly beautiful, the sight of him feeding himself in a house that once whispered with togetherness.
Of course, Jai takes a kind of quiet pride in cooking for himself. There is a spark in his movements, as if he's conjuring something more than food—a kind of quiet joy. Yet, underneath, there's a thread of absurdity that tugs at me. In this broad, unyielding world, he crafts his own meal, while the memory of family dinners settles softly in the corners. It feels both touching and lonely, a small act made grand by its implications.
Since his mother departed—pursuing her own path of studies, new friendships, and a fresh life—Jai has had to manage on his own. And who am I to fault her? Life unfurls in unpredictable ways. But for Jai, the matter extends beyond a solitary supper. It touches on something deeper: the absence of her love, the absence of a guiding presence. It is more than a missing pair of hands at the stove—it is a missing presence at every meal, every evening.
And yet, it would be too easy—and unfair—to blame her. This burden, this hollow in the heart, belongs to me. I did not mend the fissure. I could not fashion a home whole enough for two, for three. I failed to shield him from longing. Each day presents this silent reckoning—an invisible misstep, fathomless in its obscurity, yet undeniable in its consequences. I brought him into the world, and I failed to make it enough.
We see loss not just in empty chairs, but in quiet details: the couch where he lounges without a comforting shoulder, and the nights when solitude replaces the solace of a mother’s embrace. These are the small moments that knit together an absence—a quiet harmony of loss that lingers whether acknowledged or not.
Perhaps there’s a quiet absurdity here, too. One steps into life cradling hope, only to find oneself dueling with shadows—blame unspoken and consequences unbidden. Yet there we are: grappling. And while Jai learns independence—this imposed craft of survival—it galls me that the burden seems as though meant for me but carried by him.
I often wish I could say I have made peace with this. I haven’t. I am still chasing the moment it slipped—when the ship veered, and the dream eroded. It isn't like life hands us manuals for these things. You set course, believing you’re steady, then one day you look up and the map is gone, and your child is on his feet, cooking dinner while you mourn what you could not hold intact.
Yet somehow, through it all, Jai moves forward. He remains. He grows. His spirit holds a kind of quiet radiance that pierces through my self-reproach. I wish I might claim some credit for his courage—yet, truthfully, it belongs wholly to him.
In this, perhaps, lies a humbling truth: we are not the authors of our children’s resilience; they are, often, the authors of themselves—shaped in ways we cannot command. Maybe, just maybe, the task is not to repair what’s broken, but to accept that some things were never ours to mend. Perhaps I was never meant to hold all the answers, all the warmth, all the reprieve.
Still, the whisper of guilt lingers. Even as he thrives, I cannot escape the knowledge that I have let him down—left him with an incomplete world, one he nonetheless fills with his own strength. And that hurts.
Perhaps it always will.