Always, In All Ways

The kitchen still smelled like cinnamon and cardamom, even though the last batch of chai had been made hours ago. Asha stood by the window, wiping her hands on a dish towel, watching the late afternoon sun paint golden streaks across the wooden floor. Behind her, the quiet shuffle of footsteps made her smile.

“Mama,” came the voice, soft but clear.

“Hmm?” Asha turned, already knowing what she’d see.

Her daughter, Meera, stood in the doorway, her long dark hair in a loose braid, just like Asha used to wear when she was Meera’s age. Fourteen going on twenty, with a heart full of questions and a head full of dreams.

“Can I ask you something?” Meera said, hesitant.

“Always,” Asha replied, setting the towel down.

Meera stepped into the kitchen, her fingers tracing the edge of the counter. “What were you like when you were my age?”

Asha chuckled gently, surprised by the question. “Me? I was… restless. Always climbing trees, getting scraped knees, dreaming of the world outside our small village.”

Meera smiled. “I can’t imagine you climbing a tree.”

“I was wild once,” Asha said, laughing. “Your nani nearly lost her mind every week.”

They both laughed, and Meera sat down at the table. Asha poured her a glass of cool mango juice and sat across from her.

“Why do you ask?” Asha said.

Meera shrugged, then looked down. “I don’t know. Lately, I just feel like… like everything’s changing. I don’t always understand myself, and I don’t know who I’m becoming. And sometimes, I wonder if you ever felt like that.”

Asha reached across the table, taking Meera’s hand in hers. “Oh, my love. I felt like that every single day at your age. Like I was growing too fast and too slow all at once.”

Meera squeezed her hand. “Did you always know what to do?”

“Never,” Asha said with a soft smile. “But I always tried to lead with love.”

There was a pause, comfortable and full of unspoken things. Outside, a breeze rattled the leaves. The house was old, but it was filled with stories—some whispered, some lived out loud.

Meera looked up. “Sometimes I think I’m too much for you. Too emotional. Too moody.”

“You’re not too much,” Asha said instantly. “You’re learning who you are. And I’m learning how to let you become her.”

Meera blinked fast, her voice small. “That’s hard for you, isn’t it?”

Asha nodded. “Harder than anything. Because when you were little, I could protect you from the world. Now, I have to trust that I’ve taught you enough to face it.”

Meera leaned into her mother’s arm. “You have.”

Asha kissed her forehead. “I’ll always be here anyway. Just in case.”

The sun dipped lower, and the kitchen grew warmer, cozier. The air was thick with old memories—the scraped knees Asha had cleaned, the late-night stories whispered during thunderstorms, the birthday cakes half-burned but full of love.

“Mama?” Meera said again.

“Yes, jaan?”

“Will we always be like this?”

Asha’s heart pulled tight in her chest. She looked at her daughter—not the little girl who needed lullabies and night lights, but not quite the woman she was becoming either. Somewhere in between. Beautiful. Becoming.

“We’ll always be us,” she said. “It might look different someday. You’ll grow up. You’ll find your own life. Maybe far from here. But the love? The connection between us? That never changes.”

Meera nodded slowly, like she was trying to hold on to the moment, to tuck it away for the future. “Even when I’m older?”

“Even then,” Asha said. “Even when I’m old and gray, or even when I’m not here anymore. I’ll be with you in every cup of chai, every mango tree you pass, every lullaby you hum to someone you love.”

Tears welled in Meera’s eyes. “You always know what to say.”

“Only because I’ve loved you every moment of your life,” Asha whispered. “And I always will.”

They sat there for a while, mother and daughter, holding hands across the kitchen table as the sky outside melted into shades of lavender and gold.

In that small, ordinary moment—no grand gestures, no dramatic words—was a kind of love that stitched generations together. A quiet, powerful promise passed from mother to daughter:

You are never alone. You are always loved.

And love, Asha knew, was the most lasting inheritance of all.