I'm Sorry

Amma's silence cut deeper than words ever could. In Srivilliputhur's narrow lanes, I'd chosen digital validation over tradition. When her health failed, neighbors whispered about my absence, though I'd posted prayers online. That morning, sitting beside her, I finally understood. The chai she made, the stories she'd shared, the festivals we'd celebrated—these weren't memories to curate for strangers' approval. I took her weathered hand and whispered my apology. She smiled, forgiving instantly, the way mothers do. In that moment, I found my true network: the bonds woven through generations, stronger than any algorithm could measure.