“Meera,” her mother said, stopping at the doorway. “What?” “You look tired.” Meera laughed—dry, brittle. “I am tired, Ma. That’s what happens when you run the world.” “Rest a little,” her mother whispered. “The world will spin without you.” Meera rolled her eyes. Old people logic. “Bye, Ma.” She walked to the elevator without looking back. She didn’t see her mother leaning on the doorframe, watching her go. She didn’t see the way her mother’s hand lingered on the latch, as if trying to hold onto the departing warmth. In the car, Meera mistook adrenaline for relief. She blasted a podcast on “Optimizing Workflow” to drown out the silence. She told herself the lie that kept her sick: I am a good daughter. I provide. I show up. That is enough. Love reduced to a checklist: I came. I paid. I fixed. Missing one line: I connected.