The morning felt unusually quiet.
Not heavy, not foreboding—just still. Like the wind had taken the day off and the house itself was holding its breath. I sat at the table, tapping my spoon against the side of my coffee cup, half-listening to the pressure cooker hiss and my brother humming a tune in the bathroom.
Mom was pacing the kitchen, humming to herself as she checked the shelf, then the fridge, then the shelf again.
Her forehead creased.
"No milk," she mumbled. "I could've sworn we had milk."
It hit me like a whisper from the past.
She never forgot the milk. In our house, forgetting milk was like forgetting your name. Yet here she was—confused, retracing her steps, blinking as if she had just woken from a nap she didn't mean to take.
I stood. "I'll go get it."
She looked startled, then smiled, brushing it off. "No no, I'll manage. You'll be late for school."
"I've got time," I said. "Besides, it's just milk."
She looked at me—really looked—and something about her eyes told me she was thankful I noticed.
The walk to the store was short, but my mind wasn't.
What else had I missed back then? How many of these soft signs had I ignored because I thought parents didn't need watching? That they were just… there?
Maybe the stress, maybe something more. I didn't know what, but the thought made my heart knock louder than my footsteps.
The store uncle recognized me instantly. "Milk today, da? Not your usual Tiger biscuit?"
I smiled. "Just milk. Amul, half litre."
"Growing up, huh," he said, handing it over. "Tell your mom I said hi."
Back home, Mom was humming again. But now, I could see it—how she moved a little slower. How her smile had a second of delay before it bloomed.
She wasn't ill, not visibly. But something was shifting, and it had been, even back then.
I handed her the packet. She took it with a soft thank-you and poured it into the vessel.
"You okay, Ma?"
She looked up, surprised. "Me? Of course. Why?"
"No reason," I said. But I watched her more carefully now.
Later that evening, I sat on the terrace alone.
I pulled out my old journal and wrote:
"She forgot the milk today.
Just one tiny crack in the glass.
But you can hear the shatter coming."
I didn't know if I could change what was coming. I didn't even know what was coming.
But I knew now that love isn't just big acts. Sometimes it's noticing the missing milk.
Sometimes it's being there when no one else even realizes there's something to be there for.
And I would be.
This time, I would be.