Meera scraped at the bottom of the pot with slow, practiced strokes, watching smoke curl like tired breath toward the low ceiling. There was no gas left for another try, and even if there had been, she didn’t have the strength. Behind her, the clock ticked like a slow leak—each second reminding her she was late to everything… motherhood included.
Ayaan’s laughter floated in from the living room, light and sharp. Cartoon heroes shouted over one another.
Meera’s heart clenched.
Not because he was happy—
—but because he was so far away in that happiness.
She could never seem to reach him anymore.
Not through meals.
Not through words.
Not even through the things she gave up for him.
She dished the scorched rice and watery dal into a steel plate and carried it to the couch where he lay sprawled, school uniform still on, backpack unopened, shoes flung into opposite corners of the room.
“Eat,” she said, placing the plate beside him.
“Not hungry,” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen.
She didn’t argue.
Arguments were expensive—more than food, more than gas, more than she could afford.
Instead, she sat cross-legged on the frayed floor mat. Her back ached. Her palms still stung from the steam press. Her mind was already calculating whether she could skip dinner again.
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“Ayaan,” she tried softly, “you didn’t turn in your science project.”
He flinched.
“It was dumb. I don’t care.”
“You used to care.”
“Well, I don’t anymore,” he snapped.
Her lips parted…
…but the words never came.
All the things she wanted to say—
about the overtime for clay,
the skipped lunches for glitter paint,
the guilt she swallowed every time he turned away—
they stayed locked behind her silence.
She just nodded.
And stared at the flickering screen.
Pretending to understand.
Her phone buzzed.
Landlord. Again.
She turned it face down.
Outside, a baby cried.
Upstairs, water dripped.
In their flat, the kitchen bulb flickered,
tired like her,
ready to give out.
Still, she woke up every day.
Still, she packed his lunch.
Still, she saved the best fruit for him.
Still, she burned her hands—and her prayers.
Ayaan began to eat. Slowly. Mechanically.
“I have tuition in the morning,” he mumbled.
“I know. I’ll get you there.”
He didn’t respond.
When he shuffled away to bed, she ate what he’d left cold. Not because she was hungry—
—but because nothing should be wasted.
Not even rejection.
She cleaned the plate. Folded the mat.
Turned off the television.
And stood in the doorway of his room.
He was curled up,
facing the wall,
breathing softly.
So small.
Smaller than his anger.
She didn’t go in.
She just watched.
Then turned off the light.
And in the dark,
with the weight of burnt rice and unspoken things pressing against her chest,
Meera whispered the only thing she still knew how to say:
“I’m trying, beta. I really am.”