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The Unseen Tears


I was just a child of five when it happened, a small incident that etched a memory deep into my heart. It was a sunny afternoon, and I was out riding my bicycle, the world a playground of endless possibilities. But then, in a fleeting moment, my adventure took an unexpected turn.


I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground, my knee scraped and bleeding. Tears welled up in my eyes as I cried out in pain. But I knew, deep down, that my mother would come running to my rescue. Chaddha aunty had witnessed my fall, and she hurried to tell my mother about the accident. As soon as my mom heard the news, she came running, her face etched with concern.


She scooped me up in her arms, wiped away my tears, and whispered soothing words that made the pain seem less severe. In that moment, I learned the profound comfort of a mother's care, the feeling of safety and love that washed away all fear.


Years passed, and I grew into adulthood. Life had its ups and downs, but I was always mindful of the lesson I had learned that day as a child. Fast forward to my fiftieth year, and life threw me another curveball. This time, I was no longer the child in need of comfort; I was the father, responsible for the safety and well-being of my own child.


It was a day like any other, and my teenage daughter and I were out and about when disaster struck. An accident, sudden and brutal, left me with a broken leg and searing pain. But there were no tears, no cries of agony. My first thought was to ensure my daughter's safety.


Thankfully, fate was kind to us that day. One of my daughters’ friends father happened to be passing by, and he immediately took charge, making sure my daughter reached home safely.


Time crawled by as I lay there, the pain intensifying with each passing minute. I waited nearly half an hour, feeling every agonizing second, until my family finally arrived. Multiple fractures, they said. Surgery was imminent, and Dr. Anand became my beacon of hope.


Through the painful process that followed—the surgery, the recovery, the endless days of bedrest—I didn't shed a single tear. It wasn't because I was strong; it was because I had learned to be strong. I had learned that sometimes, in life's most challenging moments, you have to be your own pillar of strength.


But amidst the physical pain, there was an ache that ran much deeper—a pain that no surgery could heal. I had lost my mother in February and father in May this year, a loss that left a void in my heart. The one who had wiped away my tears all those years ago was gone, and there was no one left to care.


As I lay on my bed, recovering from the accident, I couldn't help but reflect on the profound impact my mother had on my life. She had taught me the power of love, compassion, and care. She had shown me that a mother's presence could be the balm for life's wounds, both physical and emotional.


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