When you were tiny, I used to say, “When will you grow up, boys?”
Then came the teenage years, and I did ask, “When will you become mature, betu?”
And when you did, when you stood tall, thoughtful, and ready, I said, “Now you must learn to live on your own and face life.”

And then you did.
You flew.
You became everything we hoped you would be.

But no one told me what comes after.
After the purpose is fulfilled.
After the dreams we nurtured become yours to chase.
After the house quiets down and the rhythm of motherhood slows to a whisper.

With half my life lived, it feels like it is fully gone.
Because so much of it was wrapped in you, in raising you, loving you, watching you grow.
Our journey, it seems, was always about you two.
And now that you have flown boys, I find myself asking: What now?

I wait for holidays.
Festivals.
Long weekends.
Any excuse that brings you home.

It is like I am living between these peak moments, your arrivals and departures.
The rest of the time feels like a blur.
A foggy in-between.
A zombie-like state where I go through the motions, but nothing really touches the heart.

Food does not go down the same.
I eat, but its mechanical.
No one to ask for seconds.
No one to say, “Maa, thoda aur.”

I check your rooms more than I need to.
Not because anything’s out of place, but because I want to feel close.
I sit on your beds sometimes. Play with your toys, talk to myself.
Open your cupboards.
Straighten things that do not need straightening.
Just to feel like I am doing something for you.

I plan surprises.
I plan your homecomings like they are festivals in themselves.
I think of what you will eat, what gift I will hide in your rooms, what little things will make you smile. Maybe that handmade birthday card.
Because that is when I feel alive again.

We trekked together all these years. Teaching you to climb high.
The laughter, the shared steps, the thrill of reaching the top together.
Now you trek alone.
And my heart sinks a little each time.
I pray for your safety, for your strength, for your joy.
And then you call, from the camp.
Your voice, full of wonder, saying, “Maa, we are at camp 2.”
And in that moment, it feels heavenly.
Blessed.
Like I am there with you, even from miles away.

We spent our whole lives preparing you to fly.
And when you did, we were the ones left learning how to walk again.

But I am trying.
Trying to find joy in the quiet.
Trying to rediscover who I am when I am not just your Maa.
Trying to live in the in-between, not just wait for the peaks.

Still, I won’t lie, the best days are the ones when you are home.
When the house breathes again.
When I hear “Maa” echo through the walls.
When I don’t have to pretend to be busy, because I actually am, being your mother, fully, joyfully, completely.

Come home soon.

Love you the most. You two are my world.
Maa