“She’ll come back soon,” Riya told him, though she no longer believed it herself.
Guilt crept in slowly, seeping into moments she had once taken for granted. She remembered her mother’s quiet efficiency, the meals that appeared without effort, the clean clothes folded just so. She remembered the way Lakshmi never complained, never raised her voice.
What if she does not return, a voice whispered inside her.
A week later, a neighbor mentioned seeing Lakshmi enter an old age home in Hauz Khas. The words struck Riya like a blow. Without wasting another moment, she drove across the city, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
Shanti Niketan stood serene behind its gates. The calmness of the place only heightened Riya’s inner turmoil. She rushed past the reception, scanning faces, until she saw her.
Lakshmi sat beneath a neem tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves, a book open in her lap. She looked peaceful. Clean. Composed.
The sight shattered something inside Riya.
“Mom,” she cried, dropping to her knees before her, clutching her hands. “I’m sorry. I made a terrible mistake. Please come home with me.”
Lakshmi looked down at her daughter, seeing not the angry woman from that afternoon, but the frightened child she had once soothed. Her chest tightened, but her expression remained gentle.
She slowly withdrew her hands, the gesture careful, almost tender.
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