Page 105 of Scars and Crowns

The breeze carries the scent of damp earth and wildflowers across the lake, rustling the banyan leaves overhead until they whisper against one another.

A little farther away, Sara has wandered closer to the water, crouching at the shoreline to investigate something only she can see. Probably a smooth stone. Or a shell. Or a leaf she's already decided is magical. She lives in a world where every small thing deserves attention. For a while neither of us speaks.

The only sounds are birds somewhere in the trees and the soft rhythm of water brushing against the bank.

Then Amma Saheba says quietly, "Thank you." I turn to her.

"For what?" She doesn't answer immediately. Instead she folds her hands together in her lap and looks out across the lake.

"I spent so many years looking at my son . . . " She pauses. " . . . and seeing the future Maharaja before I saw my child." The words settle heavily between us. "There was always something demanding attention." She gives a tired little smile. "The estate. Your Maharaj's expectations. Council meetings. Guests. Staff. Land disputes. Festivals. Endless responsibilities."

She shakes her head slowly. "I kept telling myself I was preparing him."

"Making him strong."

"Teaching him how to survive the life waiting for him."

Her fingers tighten around each other. "And perhaps I was." Another quiet breath. "But while I was busy preparing him to rule . . . " She swallows. " . . . I didn't notice how lonely he had become."

My chest tightens. I don't interrupt. This isn't the kind of confession that should be rushed. "I would walk past him," she says softly, "and see discipline."

"I'd see responsibility."

"I'd see a boy who never complained."

Her smile breaks slightly.

"And I mistook silence for strength."

The words hit harder than she probably realises.

"He stopped asking for things."

"He stopped crying."

"He stopped expecting comfort."

She closes her eyes briefly. "I praised him for all of it." A painful laugh escapes her. "I thought I'd raised such a mature little boy." When she opens her eyes again they're bright with unshed tears. "It took me years to realise children aren't supposed to be that quiet."

I feel my own throat tighten. "You were always there." She looks at me now. "You."

"When his father was too strict."

"When I was too distracted."

"When this palace became too heavy for shoulders that small . . . "

" . . . he had you."

A warm breeze lifts the edge of the picnic blanket before letting it fall again. "You made him laugh. You argued with him. You dragged him into trouble. You reminded him he was allowed to be a child."

A tear slips down her cheek. "I knew." She smiles sadly. "I always knew how much he missed you after you left."

"He never told me."

"He didn't have to."

"I've been his mother long enough to recognise grief even when he buries it."