The Past I Couldn't Bury

I was one and a half years old when my father died.
I don't remember his voice. I don't remember his face.
But I remember the silence he left behind.

Since then, life has been a graveyard of people I loved.
My badi maa, who I called elder mom.
My uncle, a soldier broken by the cruelty of his own wife.
My nani, the only anchor I had left.

And through it all-my mother.
Blamed, beaten, abandoned by her in-laws after my father's death, yet she never remarried, never leaned on another man. She wore a police uniform to raise us alone, her sacrifice the reason I'm even alive today.

But here's the truth:
I never felt like enough for her.
I wasn't the brilliant student. I wasn't the perfect son. And no matter how much she gave, I was haunted by the question-did I ever make her smile the way she deserved?

Now, at twenty-two, I'm carrying every scar, every grave, every unanswered question.
This is not a love story.
This is not a fairytale.
This is my past-the one I couldn't bury, no matter how hard I tried.

And maybe, just maybe, telling it will set me free.