s

Amma's silver nameplate arrived yesterday, her maiden name finally restored in Tamil script. My daughter traced the letters with curious fingers, asking what they meant. For years, I'd carried our heritage quietly, scattered across continents. The diaspora felt isolating until I found online groups sharing recipes, stories, our mothers' voices. A cousin's fundraiser helped preserve Amma's village temple. Small donations compounded into something sacred. That evening, watching my daughter wear the silk saree Amma sent, I felt the breaking and mending simultaneously—heartbroken by distance, yet excited by connection. We're still here, still together, woven through screens and stories.