He pointed to the soil. "The roots live in the dark. The roots are silent. They don't look pretty. They are covered in mud. But they feed the whole tree. Your father’s love wasn't a flower, Kabir. It was a root. It was the cut papaya. It was the ironed shirt. It was the silence while you worked. Roots do not speak. They sustain." Across town, Meera was living the same realization. She was standing in her kitchen, watching her husband, Ankit. He was fixing the RO water purifier. He was on his knees, his shirt damp with sweat, wrestling with a leaking pipe.