THE GIRL WITH HER MOTHER’S EYES #3
As I speak, Sara doesn't interrupt once. She listens with complete concentration, leaning closer after every story, her wide eyes fixed entirely on me. It's almost as though she's collecting pieces of someone she's only ever known as Mumma.
She’s silent for a long moment, almost in awe, she looks up at me and whispers, her face falling a bit, "Mister?"
"Hm?"
"If she was so good to you . . . " She hesitates. The playful sparkle disappears from her face. " . . . then why did you leave her?"
Everything inside me goes still. The question is so gentle. So honest. It lands harder than any accusation ever could. My throat closes instantly.
Seven years.
Seven years of avoiding that exact question no one really asked, except me. Of answering it with duty. With circumstance. With silence. With . . . love and hence letting her go.
And somehow . . . It takes a five-year-old to ask it so simply that every excuse I've ever hidden behind suddenly feels meaningless.
Before I can answer, she speaks again. This time her voice is barely louder than a whisper. "Mumma only has me."
She looks down at her own shoes. "What if . . . " Her fingers twist together. " . . . what if I also go away someday?" The words tremble as they leave her. "Like Nani did?" She looks back at me then. Her eyes are glistening. "Who will Mumma have?"
God.
I don't think anyone has ever punched me this hard without touching me.
For a long moment . . . I can't find my voice.
I simply look at this little girl standing in front of me.
She's trying so hard to sound brave. Trying so hard not to cry.
Trying to carry worries no five-year-old should even know exist.
I gently place a hand on her shoulder. "First . . . " My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "You're not going anywhere."
She watches me carefully. "And second . . . " I swallow. "You're right." The admission hurts. "I should've stayed in touch."
I should've searched harder. Asked more questions. Refused to let time become distance.
"There are a lot of things I should've done differently." I offer her the smallest smile I can manage. "But I can still do the right thing now."
I hold her gaze. "Your mumma is here."
"So am I."
"And this time . . . " The promise leaves my mouth before I even realise I've made it. "I'm not going anywhere."
Every word settles somewhere deep inside me.
Not because I said it to reassure a child.
Because I know it's true. Whatever happened during those missing years .
. . Whatever broke the light inside Anamika's eyes .
. . Whatever brought her back to this palace dressed in a kitchen uniform instead of carrying the future she'd dreamed about . . . She will not face it alone anymore.
Not while I'm breathing.
Sara studies me with remarkable seriousness. Exactly the way her mother used to. As though she's reading something underneath my words.
Finally . . . She slowly extends her little finger toward me. "Pinky promise?"
I smile. Without hesitation, I hook my finger around hers. "Pinky promise."
She nods once. Satisfied.
The agreement has been sealed. As I rise to my feet, another thought occurs to me. "One condition."
"What?"
"This meeting stays between us."
She squints suspiciously. "No telling your mother that we met."
She considers it with all the gravity of an international peace negotiation. Then nods. "Deal."
I reach over and gently smooth her hair again.
This time she lets me. No complaints. No swatting my hand away. Just a shy little smile that somehow feels like trust.
"I won't let your mumma be lonely." The words leave quietly. Almost to myself.
She nods as though she's accepting responsibility for something very important. "Okay."
I smile. "And one more thing."
"What?"
"Don't ever talk to strangers again." She nods immediately.
The irony of receiving that advice from the stranger she'd happily spent the last ten minutes talking to seems completely lost on her. It makes me laugh under my breath. I turn and begin climbing the staircase.
Halfway up . . . something makes me look back. She's still standing exactly where I left her. The moment our eyes meet, she throws her whole arm into the air, waving so enthusiastically that I'm convinced she's using every ounce of energy in her tiny body.
I wave back. Her delighted giggle echoes through the corridor. The sound follows me long after I've turned the corner. I smile to myself.
God.
She really is Anamika's daughter. I can’t stop thinking about that. Not because she looks like her. Because she carries the same impossible ability to make people feel lighter simply by existing.
And for the first time since afternoon . . . Something inside me feels unexpectedly . . . hopeful. The last seven years have left me with far more questions than answers.
But one thing is suddenly, unmistakably clear. I couldn't protect her from whatever happened before she came back. I can't change the years we lost.
But I can be here now. And this time . . . I'm choosing not to let her walk through another storm alone.