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Grandmother clutched the temple flowers as she stood in Srirangam's courtyard, the Kaveri breeze familiar against her weathered face. Decades away, she'd carried guilt like stones, believing forgiveness impossible. Yet here, children wove jasmine through her silver hair, their laughter dissolving decades of silence. The relentless pursuit of perfection had estranged her from family, from culture, from herself. But community demanded nothing except presence. At the evening aarti, watching temple lamps flicker across bronze pillars, she finally understood. Home wasn't about redemption or reward. It was about showing up, broken and brave, to kindle light with those who remembered her name.