The morning was gray and heavy, clouds pressing down like they knew what was about to happen. I carried the blue diary close to my chest, almost as if it were a lifeline. The house was silent, the walls echoing with memories of laughter, scolding, lullabies, and whispered secrets. Every object I passed — her favorite teacup, the worn sofa, the photographs lining the hallway — made me choke back sobs.
At the crematorium, the crowd was larger than I expected. Neighbors who had once heard her singing lullabies in the courtyard, women whose children she had watched and guided, men who had sought her advice quietly — they all came. And yet, in the midst of all these people, I felt utterly alone.
I held her hand one last time, cold and delicate, and whispered, "I'm here, Ma. I'll remember everything."
I delivered the eulogy. My voice trembled as I spoke of her kindness, her courage, the invisible strength that had raised me without me even realizing it. I spoke of the small things: the way she brewed chai in the morning, the way she tied my hair when I was too sleepy to bother, the way her hands always smelled faintly of turmeric and roses.
Every word I said felt like both a shield and a wound. I was protecting her memory even as I mourned her loss. Tears streamed down faces around me, but mine were silent, private — a storm no one could see.
When the flames rose, I whispered again, "I'll carry your name. I'll carry your love."
The smoke swirled into the gray sky, like a soft promise that some part of her would always float somewhere above me, watching, guiding