look like sleep

Amma hadn't slept properly in weeks. Dark circles painted her eyes as she stitched garments in the cramped Boston apartment, sending money home to Tamil Nadu. Her daughter found her one morning, head tilted against the sewing machine, looking like sleep had finally claimed her. But Amma wasn't resting. She was dreaming of Kannadasan's verses about sacrifice, words that had shaped generations. Her colleagues called her dedication absolute work, cheerful despite exhaustion. The social rewards came not from recognition, but from her daughter's scholarship letter. That last morning, Amma smiled. She'd woven their heritage into her daughter's future, one stitch at a time.