I was making dinner tonight, just for me, which is… an experience, let me tell you. My kitchen, you know, it’s usually a whole production. Like, my grandmother, God bless her, she’s always been the heart of it, even when she wasn’t actually *cooking*. Just her presence, that low hum of her prayers, the way she’d click her tongue when I didn’t chop the garlic finely enough. But tonight? Silence. Just the hiss of the pan, the clink of the knife, and the echo of my own thoughts. She’s… not well, you know. And the house feels it. Every single quiet corner. And here’s the thing, the awful, horrible thing I can’t tell anyone. As I was stirring that pot of daal, just for one, not the usual vat for a small army, a part of me felt… lighter. Like, almost… relieved. And yeah, I KNOW how that sounds. My own grandmother, who practically raised me, who taught me to speak English, who would slip me a tenner when my parents weren’t looking… and I’m standing here, feeling a quiet sense of *freedom*. It’s grotesque, isn’t it? I should be drowning in grief, or at least preemptive grief. And I am, a little. But then there’s this other feeling, this little spark of… possibility. It’s like, my chest expands a fraction, you know? My whole life, it’s been about THEM. My parents, my grandparents, the whole extended family. What do they need? What do they want? What will they think? The food, the rituals, the constant… *being on*. And it’s not that I resent it, not really. It’s just… a lot. And for the last thirty-five years, it’s been my normal. But tonight, with just one plate, one spoon, one napkin… it hit me. This is what it’s like to just… exist. Without an audience. Without expectations. And it felt both terrifying and… exhilarating. Like I could suddenly hear my own heartbeat again. I even caught myself humming a tune I haven’t heard in years, from like, my university days. And then I stopped, because it felt wrong. Almost like a betrayal. But then I thought, who’s here to hear it? Who’s here to judge? Just me, and my sad little bowl of daal. And then I actually laughed. A real, honest-to-god chuckle, right there in my silent kitchen. Because it’s so absurd, isn’t it? This big, monumental shift in my life, and the first thing I feel is… a sigh of relief. My grandmother would whack me with a slipper if she knew. And honestly, she’d probably be right to. So yeah, that’s my dark little secret. My grandmother is fading, and I’m finding… space. And I hate myself for it, but at the same time, I’m wondering what it’s like to fill that space with… me. Just me. Like, who even IS that person anymore? I don't know if I even remember. And I’m exhausted just thinking about figuring it out. But also… a tiny bit curious. Which is probably even worse.