The rain had a way of making the world feel smaller, as if the sky itself leaned down to wrap the streets in a grey, humming silence. I stood at the bus stop, my hands curled around an old umbrella. It was frayed at the edges, one rib slightly bent from years of windstorms, but it was mine. More than mine, It was his and he was mine.
Holding the umbrella in one hand and the little hand in other. Paving way to the home, the little one asked me, "Mom, why did you always carry an old umbrella irrespective of new ones we had?", she asked so innocently, her big eyes expecting an answer that made sense. But the truth - the real truth - wasn't ready to be told, not yet!
I simply smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead and said, "Some things stay with you, even when you have better ones because they are worth keeping close, even if they look old, you'll understand when you're older." She shrugged, splashing ahead in the shallow water, her laughter ringing against the rhythm of rain.
My grip on the wooden handle tightened without thinking. I could feel the grooves beneath my fingers, shaped over years of holding it, I could still feel in my bones. A thousand drops of rain seemed to fall not just on its fabric, but inside my chest.
The house smelled faintly of cardamom and wet clothes when we stepped inside. My daughter kicked off her shoes at the door, leaving tiny mud prints on floor. "I'll clean it later", I told myself.
"Children, you're back", my mother's voice called from the kitchen. She was sitting on low stool by the stove. slowly peeling vegetables with the precession of someone who has done it for decades.
"Did you take your tablets?", I asked, setting the umbrella to dry near the door. She gave a small nod but avoided my eyes - a sign she probably hadn't. I sighed, pouring a glass of water and placing it in front of her along with the pill. She took it this time, without argument.
Meanwhile, my daughter had already pulled out her coloring book and was lying on her stomach in the living room, humming a tune she'd picked up from somewhere. I crouched beside her, tucking damp strands of hair behind her ear.
"Draw me something nice!", I said, and she grinned, pressing her crayon harder into the page.
The rain tapped gently on the windows, the kind of sound that makes the house feel smaller and cozier. I moved between the kitchen and the living room, stirring the pot on the stove, folding the laundry from the basket and answering my daughter's endless questions about whether we could bake a cake after lunch.
It was nothing extra-ordinary-no grand event, no life-changing conversation - just three generations under one roof, sharing the quiet kind of love that grows in the spaces between words!