😞😞

Every December, Amma woke before dawn to recite Thiruppavai with her daughters, their voices threading through our ancestral home like silk. This year, I returned alone to that dark kitchen, her worn prayer book trembling in my hands. The verses came haltingly. My Tamil felt rusty, shame creeping in. But as neighbors quietly joined, sitting in our doorway, I realized something profound. Heritage wasn't about perfection. It was about showing up, imperfectly, keeping the light alive. Their presence wasn't reward. It was love, reflected back.