A Little Chaos, A Lot of Love

Today was one of those strange days—where there’s so much happening, yet everything feels oddly still inside. I had a lot to say, a lot to write. I could have written about where I went, what I saw, or even what I wore. But my mind kept circling back to one moment—one that was so simple, yet it made my whole day feel full.

It started with a confession. I told my mother that I’ve been writing a novel. Her eyes lit up with surprise and joy. She looked at me, truly looked, as if seeing a side of me for the first time. “Achha?” she said with genuine interest. I nodded, a little nervous but excited. Then I added, “Aur maine aapke baare mein bhi likha hai.” Her reaction was priceless. She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that comes from being deeply touched. “Tumhe itni achi English aati hai?” she asked, amazed. That moment felt so warm—like sunshine on a winter morning. My mother, always composed, always mature, looked at me with so much love, it softened something inside me. She’s usually the strong one, the serious one. But today, she was just… cute. Really, really cute.

The house was full today. My uncle’s son and daughter came over. The boy is a little stubborn, but the girl seems sweet. My uncle is getting our house painted, so there’s a bit of chaos in every room—plastic sheets, buckets of color, the smell of turpentine and dust. Still, there’s a sort of liveliness in the air.

Papa wasn’t home; he had taken my younger brother out of station to see a doctor—our mamu, who’s a surgeon. It was strange not having him around. The house felt different without his calm presence. But I knew he’d be back soon.

And me? I don’t do much these days. There’s a lot of confusion in my head about the future. I don’t know what I want to be, what I want to do. I just… exist. But what’s strange is that my mother doesn’t scold me. Not once. Even when I sit idle, lost in thought, she simply lets me be. She knows I’ve been struggling for some time—going through personal issues I can’t always name. Maybe that’s why she’s changed. She doesn’t want to add to my pain. She wants to be my peace.

She treats me like I’m her little girl again. Not in a childish way, but in a protective, nurturing way. She speaks gently, smiles often, and checks on me without making it obvious. She wants me to be happy. That’s all she asks for.

It’s beautiful, really. In a world that keeps demanding more, she asks for less. Just my happiness. Just my smile.

I know things are messy—inside the house and inside my head. But today, for a moment, everything felt okay. Because someone saw me, someone loved me, and someone believed in me.

And maybe that’s where stories begin—not in grand adventures or perfect endings, but in the quiet love of a mother, the chaos of family, and the courage to write even when you're unsure.

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