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Amma's handwritten recipe cards yellowed in my Toronto apartment, forgotten between moves. One evening, scrolling mindlessly, I found a community group for Tamil diaspora families sharing ancestral knowledge. Something stirred. I photographed each card, typed the recipes in both Tamil and English, added stories about Sunday mornings watching Amma cook. The group embraced them instantly. Strangers thanked me, shared their own fragmented memories, their own mothers' forgotten dishes. My daughter asked to learn sambar. As I taught her Amma's technique, I understood: some legacies survive not through perfection, but through passing hands and patient hearts.