This Sunday morning, while spring-cleaning for Diwali, I was in ruthless mode — yeh nahin chahiye, throw it away. Bag after bag filled with clutter, until my form-help pulled out a couple of old diaries. “Madam, dekh lo,” he said.

Curious, I opened one. On the pages before her birthdate 14/02 there it was , my daughter’s small, uneven handwriting from 2010: “It’s my 10th Birthday.” She had neatly written her wish list — balloons, photos, a drawing of the cake, free games, invitations… guest list etc

Between her words were my own hurried scribbles — what still needed to be done for the party. Balloons not ordered, cake not collected, gifts half-wrapped. The handwriting looked rushed, scattered — a mirror of my life then.

Back in those years, I was trying to hold up too many worlds — a doctor, a surgeon, a wife, a bahu, a daughter, and above all, a mother. Always striving to be perfect in every role, always exhausted, always guilty that nothing I did was ever enough. Especially for her.

And then came the words that stopped me cold on diary date of my birthday ..

“Happy Birthday Mummna.

I love you. You are the best.

You are so busy, such a big doctor, but you are always there for me.

I hope I become like you someday.”

Tears blurred the page. All my guilt, my fear of failing her — melted. She hadn’t wanted a flawless mother. She only wanted me. Messy, tired, juggling a hundred things — but still hers.

That little diary reminded me that children don’t measure us against perfection. They remember the love, the laughter, the moments we showed up — even in our chaos.

I wasn’t perfect. But to her, I was still enough.

 

Sometimes the love we thought we fell short of… was always there in their little eyes, seeing us as enough.

⸻Suvi’s Scribbles