But I tried.
I tried to keep my spirits up.
For Jiya.
For the children.
Jiya had become everything for me—my strength, my support, my anchor. She moved through each day without complaint, taking care of me, the children, and the businesses as if she had somehow multiplied herself into three different people.
And yet, I saw it.
The way her shoulders had started to sink.The way her face had grown thinner.The exhaustion she tried so hard to hide behind her soft smiles.
Sometimes, I snapped.
Other times, the frustration and the helplessness would spill out in ways I didn’t mean.
And every time, she absorbed it without a word.
Because she knew.
She always knew.
That I didn’t mean it.
That it wasn’t reallyme.
That hurt me more.
I hated being dependent on her.Hated that I needed her for things I used to do without thinking.Hated that taking care of me was taking something away from her.
But I had no choice.
And neither did she.
Still… she carried it all.
Like a force I didn’t fully understand.
Like a woman who refused to let anything fall apart, even when everything was.
On Saturday, I looked around the table and realized that every single person sitting there was part of my world.
My family.
The people who mattered most.
The people I loved.
The people I was about to leave behind.
I managed to stay present the entire day, holding onto each moment, each laugh, each conversation. After a late lunch, we all remained seated, the table still scattered with plates and glasses, the air filled with that comfortable contentment that comes only from being surrounded by the right people.
I cleared my throat.
“I would like to say a few words.”
The room quieted instantly.
