“I know, I know,” her mother retreated instantly. “You work so hard. I just… I made gajar ka halwa. Will you eat?” Meera sighed—heavy, theatrical. She wore exhaustion like a medal. If she wasn’t stressed, she wasn’t enough. And because she was stressed, she felt exempt from basic gentleness. “Ma, I told you I’m on intermittent fasting,” she snapped, finally looking up. “And sugar triggers my migraines. Why do you always forget?” Her mother stared at the orange bowl on the table. “I just thought… you used to like it.” “I used to be twelve,” Meera said. “I’m thirty-five. I have a mortgage, a diabetic husband, and a boss who emails at midnight. I don’t have time for halwa.” Silence. The air conditioner hummed, rattling in its frame. Meera felt irritation rise. Why does she make me be the bad guy? She saw grey roots needing dye, spectacles slightly crooked. Her mother had become a project to manage. Every Sunday: electricity bill paid, medicines ordered, maid instructed. She did everything a “good daughter” does on paper. She performed the labor of love. And withheld the love.