“Thinking about your father,” she said, surprising herself.

Sahiti touched Anjali’s feet. “Namaskaram, Aunty.”

“I’m not against her, Vikram,” she said slowly. “I’m afraid of being left behind.”

Vikram was quiet. Then: “That’s how I feel with Sahiti.”

Anjali turned to him. In the dim light, he looked both like his father and utterly himself.

One monsoon evening, Vikram brought Sahiti home.

It was said lightly. But Vikram heard the anchor beneath.

“Amma, I’m twenty-four,” he said one evening, watching her fold his laundry with the precision of a ritual. “I can wash my own shirts.”

If you'd like, I can also write a second story in this collection—perhaps from the son’s point of view, or a more dramatic one involving a family secret, a long-lost father, or a mother who finds her own romance late in life. Just tell me the emotional tone you prefer.