monday

Every Monday morning, Amma wakes before dawn to recite Thiruppavai, her voice threading through our small Boston apartment like silk. My daughter, born here, stumbles into the kitchen halfway through, drawn by something she cannot name. "Why do you do this?" she asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "For blessings," Amma whispers, finishing the sacred verses. That Monday, my daughter got the scholarship. Amma held her close, tears streaming. No questions asked about sacrifice or faith. The miracle wasn't in the prayers alone—it was in how our heritage had become hers, too, binding us across continents and generations, reminding us we belonged to something larger than ourselves.