Since I work from home, my daughter often mimics everything I do. I have my office desk set up at home, and right next to it is her little writing desk. While I’m busy typing on my laptop, she quietly sits beside me — reading her books, colouring, or drawing. But the moment I step away for a tea break or even a quick restroom break, she jumps onto my chair. And that’s her moment. She starts typing — or at least, what she believes is typing. To make it more fun for her, I even got her a wireless keyboard. She happily uses it and genuinely believes she’s helping me with my office work. A few days ago, she wanted to do some “real typing.” So I opened Notepad for her. She started pressing random keys — letters, numbers — and looked so focused doing it. Then she said something that made me smile. “Amma, I also want a salary… I’m helping you with office work!” Today, she wanted to try again. This time, I told her to observe what I was doing. She noticed me pressing two keys togeth...
Three days after writing “ The Mother I’m Afraid of Becoming ,” a strong guilt lingered inside me. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it stayed. I began noticing something uncomfortable — my daughter had been trying her best to be the best version of herself… for me. She had been adjusting to my constant changes. Listening carefully to what I said. Watching me more than I realized. And then it struck me. She wasn’t just listening. She had been imitating me. She screamed at the top of her voice — because that was what I did when I was overwhelmed. She kept a long face when upset — because that was how I reacted in anger. She played alone in the living room — because I stayed in my room, working on my laptop, telling her I was “busy.” If she wasn’t supported, how would she truly understand what was right and what was wrong? That Sunday, something shifted. I sat beside her and read her a story. It was about a little boy who refused to put his toys back in place. Later, ...