It was an ordinary Tuesday morning in 2018. The sun glared through my windshield as I drove my daughters to school. The radio hummed, narrating mundane news. My phone buzzed—once, then again, insistently.

"Pick it up, Mama," my younger daughter nudged from the back seat.

Reluctantly, I answered. My father’s voice cracked through the line. "She’s gone."

Two words. A thunderclap in my chest.

"What?" The word barely escaped my lips.

"Your maa... she’s no more."

The world fell eerily silent, as though time itself had recoiled in disbelief. My daughters’ chatter faded into the distance. My grip on the steering wheel tightened, but my mind drifted into an abyss. The road ahead blurred, not from tears, but from the weight that suddenly anchored me in place.

I don’t remember driving to childrens' schools or saying goodbye. The next thing I recall is standing in my living room, lost and hollow.

"Maa is gone," I mumbled, when my husband asked what was wrong.

I walked straight to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let the water drown out my sobs. Grief flowed unrestrained. I heard maa’s familiar voice: “Beta, take care of yourself.” Her words looped endlessly, a haunting echo of love.

I emerged hours later, drenched, drained, and trembling. My husband stood by the door. Without a word, he wrapped me in his arms. The dam broke again, and I sobbed like a child. My mother—my anchor, my constant—was gone, and I was adrift.

Days passed. The house grew silent, lifeless. My daughters tiptoed around me, unsure how to help. My husband took over everything—cooking, cleaning, shuttling the girls to school—while I drifted through shadows of grief.

One evening, he sat beside me on the couch. "You know," he began softly, "your Nani passed away thinking about your mother. And your mother… she left this world thinking about you."

I looked up, my chest tightening at his words.

"And someday," he continued, "you’ll leave thinking about our daughters. That’s life. The cycle of love, the worry—it keeps the world turning, even when we feel like it shouldn’t.”

His words struck something deep within me. Grief didn’t end, but something shifted inside me—a realization, profound, and undeniable. Life was precious, fragile, and painfully transient—but enduring.

The next morning, I rose before dawn. I brewed tea and packed my daughters’ lunches. They stared at me, wide-eyed.

"Mom?" My elder daughter asked hesitantly.

"Life keeps going," I said, smiling through tears that glistened in my eyes.

From that day forward, I have carried my mother in my heart—not as a loss, but as a legacy. Her love, her strength, her worries—they live on in me. And for her, I vowed to live fully, fiercely, and without fear.

Grief still visits, but it no longer consumes me. In the quiet spaces between love and loss, I find maa—guiding me, steadying me, and reminding me that the cycle of life is not an ending, but a continuation of all we hold dear.