Priya did not believe in privacy when it came to her daughter’s well being.
She believed in tradition, yes. In respect. In allowing Elena to grow into her own woman, to make choices, to stumble and recover on her own feet. But privacy the kind that cloaked danger in silence had never sat right with her.
That morning, she had woken with the familiar, unsettling heaviness in her chest. The kind that didn’t announce itself with logic or reason. It simply was. A quiet pressure beneath her ribs, persistent and impossible to ignore.
She tried to dismiss it. She always did.
Still, she cooked.
Biryani took time, patience, and attention three things Priya believed had a way of steadying anxious thoughts. She washed the rice carefully, fingers moving from habit more than intention. She measured
